


Babes in Arms

by StarsBurst



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes is such a tease, Consensual Sex, Consent, Domestic Discipline, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Gentle Sex, Great Depression, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Internalized Homophobia, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader is a sassy little shit, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Spanking, Steve and Reader are best friends, Steve is also a sassy little shit, Therapeutic spanking, Vaginal Sex, World War II, bisexual reader, everything will forever be consensual, neither are towards the Reader, safe sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6875656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsBurst/pseuds/StarsBurst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the 1930's and 1940's, social expectations between men and women were rather strict, even amidst the Depression and early news about the impending war. When a skinny boy popped into your life in 1938, you never expected where you would soon be heading. </p><p>Alternatively: a self-indulgent fic of Bucky and the reader, and a lot of spankings, before and during WWII. There is also a lot of pre-serum Steve.</p><p>(Additional tags will be added as they're included.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: September 1940

“Bucky! Bucky...! _James_ _Barnes_ , you put – me – down!”

“Doll, if you keep kicking like that, you're going to hit me in the wrong place. Then I'll _really_ be sore at you.” There was a clear warning in his voice: something bordering the stern tone that he had no problem using in private, but was more conscious and considerate about not using in public.

And you knew that Bucky was right, so you stopped kicking your legs and quietly pouted from your current position: hauled over Bucky Barnes' shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. Poor Steve, who was walking behind you both, with your kitten-heeled brogues in his hands and a busted lip, was trying to avoid looking you directly in the face. To preserve his own sense of modesty, or to avoid embarrassing you further, you weren't entirely sure.

Although, every other block or so, a young man or boy would whistle and applaud Bucky – for literally snatching a dame over his shoulder, or for “putting her in her place”, or some nonsense like that. _That_ was definitely more humiliating than having Steve look shyly away from you. Each time, Bucky would ignore the remarks, unless they became too crass: then he would yell, and they would shut up immediately.

“Thank you for carrying my shoes, Steve,” you admitted in a small voice, once you recognized that the three of you were inside a building, and – from what you could see – you three were going down a few hallways and up a set of stairs. Bucky's current apartment complex, most likely, since Steve's apartment was further away than a ten-block walk from where the fight had broken out. Poor Bucky lived close to the top floor, since it was cheaper, but it also gave him more privacy.

“It's no trouble,” Steve admitted, giving you a small smile, and you returned it.

“Yeah, yeah, well, _no trouble_ isn't exactly what you two had been causing today,” Bucky cut in, and you flinched under his scolding. Yep, you were definitely in trouble, and by the way Steve's lips had pursed into a thin line, so was he. “Both of you know better than to go around and causing fights. 'Specially you, Steve. We've talked about it a million times.”

“We didn't go hunting for them,” you argued softly, and you squeaked when you felt Bucky's hand patting your bottom menacingly.

“Doll, do you really want to be arguing with me right now?” he warned, and you pouted. You knew that, once you got back to his apartment, you were certainly going to get spanked – and Steve probably was too, which was what you felt guilty over. You had been the one to start the fight against the two YMCA boxers, but Steve had only been trying to push them away from you. Now, he had a busted lip for his trouble, and both of you would've been worse off if Bucky hadn't shown up from his own boxing session.

“Well?” Bucky tacked on, and you shook your head, even though Bucky couldn't see it.

“No.”

“'No' is right.” And from the sound of jingling metal, you guessed Bucky was searching for his keys. A moment later, you heard a door opening, and the familiar carpeting in Bucky's small, two room apartment came into view. You knew, after being there a few times, that you three were entering into a tiny kitchen and living space, and Bucky's bedroom was in the second, smaller room.

“Get in,” Bucky commanded, and you heard Steve shuffling past and further into the apartment. You heard Bucky shut and lock the door, before everything spun and you were suddenly back on your feet. You reached for something to grab onto, and Bucky's hands quickly found your shoulders.

“You alright?” he said, his voice a little softer than before, and you nodded, your own hands latching onto his forearms.

“My eye hurts,” you admitted quietly, since you knew he didn't like being lied to, and he let out a small snort.

“I can see. You're gonna have quite the shiner tomorrow. But no dizziness?” You shook your head. “Good.” And he gave your right cheek a small, affectionate swipe with his thumb, before you were spun around. A loud crack reverberated around the room, followed by pain blossoming across your bottom. “Into the corner. Now.”

You scampered away into the nearest corner, far away from Bucky and straight past a dubious-looking Steve, towards the corner and planted yourself there. You knew disobeying only meant _more_ swats, and – to be honest – you had known this was coming. Did you like it? No, not when Bucky got stern with you, because Bucky's sterner spankings were much more painful than the occasional playful swat or indulgent bottom grope you'd received from him. But you knew that you had earned it, with your poor behavior.

“Bucky -” you heard Steve start to say, before Bucky cut him off.

“Steve, don't start with me -”

“ _Buck_ , you don't have to -”

“Have to _what_? Watch out for you two -”

“I can handle myself -”

“Yeah, _right_ -”

“And so can -”

“Not when I find you both picking fights with _boxers_ , Steve -”

“We're not _children_ , Bucky -”

“Really? I hadn't noticed!”

You were struggling to keep from interjecting, or turning around to watch, because neither of those things would do you any favors. But eventually, you heard the sound of someone receiving a few swats, followed by Bucky's stern, “Steve, I am _not_ in the mood to argue with you. Just, get your ass into the corner until I calm down, before I break out the spoon.”

The wooden spoon was a painful sonovabitch, an instrument of torture that had residence in Bucky's kitchen (and had never been used for cooking), so you weren't surprised to hear the sound of footsteps entering another corner of the room. However, you did feel a little guilty at the sound of Bucky's sigh. You kept quiet as you continued to listen and attempted to decipher what Bucky was doing: the two plops and scuffles meant that he'd taken off his shoes. The rustling of clothing probably meant that Bucky was removing his jacket, or changing out of his boxing gear. Maybe both. Footsteps, far away from you, going in and out of the bedroom and the kitchen. Pacing.

A pacing Bucky was a dangerous Bucky.

Well, no. Not dangerous. Just very unnerving. Especially when he was displeased with you. Or Steve. Or both of you, like he was now.

Several minutes passed – or, what you assumed was several minutes, but it felt like an eternity – before you heard Bucky stop pacing and, with a soft _whump_ , you knew he sat down on the one soft chair in his apartment. (He'd won it in a raffle during the Christmas holiday the year before, to Steve's complete envy.)

“Alright, you two, turn around. Don't move from your corners: just turn around.”

You obeyed, of course. Bucky's stern tone was nothing to be trifled with. But your stomach dropped into your feet at the sight of the sturdy, worn coal brush in his right hand.


	2. 1935 - 1938

If you thought about it long and hard, it all probably started in 1935.

Well, it probably started a _little_ earlier than that: you had been born in December of 1919, after all, not in 1935. But the initial downward spiral, which eventually lead to the two greatest joys in your life, had begun in 1935. The Great Depression was in full swing, and your family of four was struggling just as much as everyone else.

Your mother had miraculously managed to retain her job as a typist and bookkeeper at the nearby Woolworth's: it was partially a miracle, and partially because she was _exceptional_ at her job. On the other hand, the coat factory that had hired your father had gone bankrupt in 1931. He'd been searching for a steady job since, to a series of pitfalls: selling apples and blueberries that he'd pluck from behind your house; shining shoes and washing windows; knocking on back-alley doors and begging for day work; anything and everything to avoid coming home without some sort of income. By 1935, both you and your older brother, Kenneth, were in high school, and you both were also searching for part-time employment while your mother worked long hours to keep your family afloat.

Sometimes, during those four years, your father would halt his job-hunt and instead took it upon himself to teach you and your brother various necessities of life. He tried teaching Kenneth how to fish. (It didn't take.) He tried teaching Kenneth how to use various hand tools, to make repairs around the house and to build pieces of furniture. When Kenneth proved to be rather clumsy with tools, your father taught you instead, despite understanding that it wasn't typically feminine to brandish a hand-saw or make a table from scrap lumber.

Meanwhile, you taught Kenneth how to cook, since he recognized that knowing how to cook was a good skill to have, and your mother taught you both how to clean. (Your father had been disgruntled about his son cleaning house, but Kenneth was a germaphobe and didn't mind at all.) The home economics class at your high school taught you how to sew with a machine. When your mother would return home, she would show you and Kenneth how to balance a budget, and all four of you would search the papers for sales and coupons to be able to put food in the pantry.

Then, during September of 1935, your father disappeared.

Looking back, “disappeared” was a polite way of putting it. He'd left a note on the table, saying that he loved all three of you but he found a job offer in Detroit in a factory where they would be fixing cars. It was a long way from your home in the Ozarks, but he promised to send you money and he'd come home whenever he could. At 15, you were still definitely your father's daughter, but everyone agreed it was for the best. Time were tough.

Except, your father never really made it to Detroit, and you found that out the hard way: about two weeks later, one of the girls handed you the local newspaper from a town about a half hour away, and she'd asked, “Hey, doesn't he look like your Daddy?”

And she was right: your father was there, lurking in the background of a photograph from the opening night of a club, getting handsy with an indistinguishable woman who was definitely _not_ your mother. You took the newspaper, gave it to your mother that night, and – after several hours of screaming and tears – your mother eventually said, “Fine,” and the next morning, she sold several pieces of her jewelry to pay for a divorce lawyer.

By the end of the school year, your sixteenth birthday had long passed, and you were set to be a junior in high school, while Kenneth had graduated. None of you had received any sort of contact from your father since he left, aside from his willing signature on the divorce papers. It wasn't much of a surprise when all three of you packed up your worthwhile possessions into a car, sold everything else, and moved far away. With every passing mile away from the Ozarks, you felt your heart hardening against your father and the old way of life you once had, and you felt the love towards your brother and mother growing exponentially. Every window of the car was rolled down, and after the first hour, your thighs were numb under the weight of your typewriter.

“Are we moving back to Maine?” Kenneth had asked, when the car passed into Virginia territory. Your mother shook her head and explained: her hometown was too small and probably worse off than the Ozarks, in terms of job loss. It would be better to start off in a big city.

“We'll be in New York City.” And that was that. The three-room apartment was good enough for you all, especially since the money you made by selling your old home – and the car, once everything was settled – paid off the deposit and two months rent.

(“He wanted more,” your brother said in a low voice, once the landlord left in a huff. “But he knows he can't get much more in a depression. He'll take what he can get.”)

“It's only temporary,” your mother said to you one night, after everything was put away. You were sharing one of the bedrooms with your mother, and your brother had the other to himself. You each had your own mattress, the ones you'd brought atop the car, so that was a blessing. There was one desk in the living area, and some kitchen appliances, and three dressers: everything that the landlord had said was included in the apartment. “I know your brother will want to move out on his own eventually, and I'll downsize whenever you go too. Just don't make it too soon!”

**~ * ~**

Things settled down after a while. Your mother managed to land another bookkeeping job at a nearby bank, after three men were caught embezzling funds: she did the work of three men, but they paid her the wage of one and three-fourths. (“I have a job, and it's something,” your mother said after receiving her first paycheck, which was still more than what she'd previously made in the Ozarks. “And I don't have to work weekends either.”)

Your brother managed to find a job busing tables at a nearby diner. All of you knew that Kenneth would've preferred to go onto college, but that wasn't possible. He would always say that he'd go once the Depression was over, and you could tell that he was clinging onto that hope with both fists.

You, on the other hand, continued your high school education at an all girls' school that was four blocks away from your house. You walked back and forth every day, and you managed to discover a quaint second-hand, 5-to-10 cents store five blocks in the other direction from your new home. You became better at sewing with practice, and it wasn't long before you'd sewn a cover for every piece of furniture that was in the apartment. If something broke, you made it work. You filled in holes in the walls; you put heavy books under stumpy table and chair legs.

You also broke down into tears on your 17th birthday when Kenneth gave you a second-hand sewing machine.

“I just hope it works,” he said, blushing under your parade of grateful tears. “They gave it to me real cheap, it might be broken.”

And he was right: it _was_ broken, but when you convinced your new home economics teacher to look at it, she managed to fix it rather easily. Clearly, whoever sold the machine had never tried to use one before. Whenever you were home, if you weren't working on homework, you were sewing or working at your typewriter. Even though the Depression was still going, your dream of becoming a writer had never died, and your mother had never tried to quench it.

You graduated from high school in 1938, and you spent that night doing something your mother abhorred. You took your mattress and placed it on the open fire escape near your window and slept outside, because it wasn't supposed to rain and the sweltering heat felt less consuming when there was a slight breeze. In the morning, you put the mattress back again, and you went out in search of a job.

**~ * ~**

The months of June, July, August and September of 1938 went by in a blur for you. Kenneth managed to find a better job in New Jersey during the middle of July, and he packed everything he had into three boxes before shipping out. Your mother took a day trip to visit him (and to give him his mattress), and you had managed to get yourself a job inside of a seamstress shop. Most of your duties involved balancing the budget, and – obviously – working the machine and making alterations, but Miss Ruth – the owner and your boss – often let you take scrap fabrics from the larger orders to take home. If someone also refused to pay for an order (for whatever reason), she would offer the piece of clothing to you or your coworker, Blanche, at a discount.

Of the three times that had occurred, you only took her up on the offer once, since you knew the dress would fit your mother.

Kenneth would sometimes visit whenever he had a day off, and each time, he would bring “gifts” to you: old fabric scraps, books, things he knew that you could re-purpose and use. While many sisters would look down on it, your family was broke, and you had no problem with it. Once, he brought you a silky men's shirt with billowing arms, and you altered the chest to fit your body shape, redesigned the collar, and switched out the cuff-link buttons: even Miss Ruth had been impressed by the change.

Admittedly, part of the blur had been due to a near obsession to save up as much money as possible. You knew having a job meant helping provide for yourself and your mother, which – of course – you had no problem doing. Still, you felt a little bit of envy at Kenneth for being out on his own (although he had admitted to having a roommate), and you knew that _eventually_ you would be in the same position. Part of you had no problem waiting, and another part of you dreamed for your own apartment. Somewhere with at least two rooms and a fire escape you could sleep on during the summer heat.

The other aspect of the blur was your determination to avoid dating for as long as possible. It wasn't that you were against dating, per say. But you had certainly heard enough horror stories from the girls in the Ozarks, and your classmates at St. Gabriel's, and Blanche, who seemed to go on dates with different boys left and right each weekend. The one date you'd gone on before moving had ended in disaster, and since your arrival to New York, you'd had a minimal amount of interaction with the opposite sex.

Not to mention, you had decided that you wanted your own kind of financial and emotional stability before looking at others. Watching your parents' divorce and your mother's attitude towards having her own income had reinforced that. When Blanche had first asked you what type of guy you were interested in, you had answered with, “I'm not interested in finding a fella.”

The three pins Blanche had been keeping in her mouth fell when her jaw dropped, and she scrambled to pick them up before Miss Ruth saw her. “You.... are, are you—?”

“I'm not _queer_ ,” you snapped, catching Blanche's eye. You ignored the fact that you'd occasionally catch yourself peering in awe at the back of other women's legs, the pleats in their skirts or how the edge would sway against their calves. How soft they looked compared to men. “I just want to get myself right first.”

“But,” Blanche said, frowning, “You're almost 19! You oughta have fellas just flocking towards you!”

Angrily swallowing down memories of being taunted about your breast size, your short height, your appearance, your eagerness to make good grades, anything, everything, you bitterly said, “Yeah, that'd be nice, wouldn't it.”

By September, a routine between work and life at home allowed you to settle in with your personal pursuits: you had started working on a dress for yourself out of some nice red fabric from the back of the shop, and you were constantly checking the newspaper to see if there was an opening for a position. (There never was.) When your 19th birthday came around, Kenneth sent a lovely four-page letter (and a dollar), while your mother gave you a journal. You had multiple 5-cent notebooks purchased over the years (whose pages you eventually put onto nicer paper for your typewriter), but this was the first glossy journal you'd ever received.

It wasn't until before Christmas when you made your first entry, and in hindsight, it was the best sort of thing you could've ever written about:

_December 18, 1938,_

_New York City,_

_Today, I absolutely met the skinniest person alive! His name was Steve, and he came in to have a dress altered for his mama for Christmas. He kept apologizing about bringing it in so close to Christmas, but he'd only found it the day before, and he was certain it was too big for her. Miss Ruth kept clucking her tongue at him, and I could practically hear her thinking, “Poor little lamb,” like she does when someone pitiful walks in, except he didn't look too pitiful. Just skinny. And, of course, I have to have the dress done by the time we close on the 23rd._

 

 


	3. September 1940

Along with the wooden spoon, Bucky's hand, and the old, long razor strap hanging on a peg in the back of Bucky's closet, the coal brush was an instrument of sheer torture. Of course, Bucky had a second coal brush to actually use when scraping ashes out of his kitchen stove: _that_ one had a long handle and long black bristles, and it was about five inches long by two inches wide. The brush currently had in his hands was circular and made of metal, with a shorter handle and tiny white bristles: it had probably been intended for a small furnace, or a grate, instead of an oven. But not once had Bucky ever cleaned with it.

You knew very, _very_ well that this little bastard _stung_.

The first time Bucky had used it on you, it was because you had shoved him into the large, scummy pond in Central Park. One of his few good pairs of pants were ruined, and a nice shirt – all caused by a great thunderstorm of misunderstandings that had occurred minutes before. Both of you had _eventually_ managed to sort through it everything, even though it'd taken several hours. After a couple of apologies – from the both of you – you found yourself over Bucky's knee, and the coal brush made its impact upon your bottom quite clearly. You hadn't even considered pushing Bucky – or Steve, or anyone else – into water, unless you were at a pool. (You'd gotten him a replacement shirt and pants: brand new ones, costing all of two and a half dollars together, and he made his gratefulness known in spades.)

Since then, it'd appeared frequently, usually for the occasional little white lie, or for the “finale” of a bad-attitude spanking. Normally, Bucky preferred to use his own hand with you – and with Steve – since he knew he wouldn't bruise either of you with it.

If you thought about it hard enough, you could probably make a chart of what each torture device was used for, and whether Bucky used it on you, or Steve, or both of you. Color-code it. Make a graph. Something. Maybe you'd do that one day for giggles... Although, Bucky would probably do his darnedest to prove you wrong.

And was  _that_ something you _really_ wanted to tempt him with? No, _not_ _at_ _all_.

“Alright, I want you both to listen good, and I swear to god, if either of you interrupt me, I'll wash out your mouth. Understand?” It was obvious, by his elbows leaning on his knees and his stern expression, that Bucky was not playing around. Bucky had never washed out your mouth, and that was something you were determined to _not_ experience. (You decided to preserve Steve's dignity in advance by never asking him about it.)

Still, you nodded from your corner, and you could see Steve doing the same from your periphery.

“Good,” Bucky said. “Now. What the hell were you two thinking? Both of you know better than to go around, snapping your cap at anyone and starting a fight.”

“We didn't start the fight,” Steve said in a slightly somber tone, just as you said, “Steve wasn't fighting, Bucky, he was just trying to help.”

“Okay, stop, stop. One at a time. Steve.”

“We didn't start the fight, Buck,” Steve repeated. “They kept bothering the girl behind the desk. We were trying to get 'em to stop.”

“By punching 'em in the eye?”

“That was me,” you admitted in a soft voice. “I threw the first punch.”

Bucky was silent for a moment, his eyes seeming to size you up, and he eventually said, “ _You_ threw the first punch, doll?”

You nodded. “Yeah, but I hadn't planned on fighting anyone. We kept saying to leave her alone, and they kept mouthing off, and -”

“It got out of hand,” Steve interjected, and Bucky let out a snort.

“You better believe it got out of hand,” Bucky snapped. “My best friend and my best girl, caught fighting some _professional_ _boxers_ outside of a ring at the YMCA. You're both lucky I convinced them to cut you both loose. And now you're lying to me, Steve.” He turned his head to throw a stern look at the skinny boy, and before Steve could try and defend himself, Bucky plowed on: “Don't try and hide it. You just said neither of you started the fight, so one of you is lying. Unless you were the one to lie to me, doll?”

Bucky turned his stern expression towards you, and you immediately shook your head. No, sir, you did not lie to Bucky about starting the fight. You _had_ thrown the first punch, to the boxer who was only a few inches taller than you, and he hadn't made any concessions when returning the favor.

“Steve?” Bucky turned back to look at him, but Steve was now looking at the floor. “I thought so. _Both_ of you know better than to _lie_ to me. And both of you know better than to start fights.”

“We weren't planning on fighting anyone, Buck,” Steve said.

“Of course you weren't _planning_ it, Stevie, you never plan to go out and start a fight,” Bucky's voice was growing sterner by the second. “It just happens. I know what you're gonna say to get your butt out of trouble, so don't bother.”

“We really weren't, Bucky,” you pleaded softly. “We went to the Y 'cause we knew you were there, and Steve and I were gonna surprise you.”

Thus far, you'd been too busy with work at the shop to visit Bucky while he was boxing at the gym, and Steve had been too concerned with trying to get more hours at work. Both of your schedules had managed to provide a free spot, so Steve had decided that – if nothing else – it would've been nice to see Bucky in action. He was a two-time winning welterweight boxing champion of the YMCA, and Steve had been gearing you up with stories from the competitions when you'd stumbled upon the scene: a frail-looking young woman, probably a few years older than you were, just trying to file papers while two of the boxers were leering over her. Everyone around you was blatantly ignoring the problem, and you couldn't stand for it.

You explained all of this, trying to avoid looking at the coal brush (knowing it would make your throat tighten up), and tacked on, “I, I thought they would leave her be, with someone standing up for her and all. It, it didn't really work.”

You looked down at your stocking feet, so you missed Bucky looking at Steve for confirmation – and Steve nodding along in agreement. The fight itself had only been occurring for about thirty seconds or so before Bucky had come down the hallway, but it'd been long enough for you and one of the boxers to be punched, and for Steve to get a busted lip. Both boxers had recognized Bucky from the competitions, and when he said all three of you were leaving, the men had left the matter settled. They'd probably noticed how infuriated Bucky had been at the pair of you.

“Alright. So you both were just coming by to visit me and say hello?” When both you and Steve nodded, Bucky sighed and looked at the ceiling, almost as if asking for help. “Alright, alright. But at the end of it all, you -” Bucky gave you a stern look, and you wanted to melt back into the corner, “- started a fight, and you -” He turned his disgruntled expression at Steve. “- lied to me about _who_ started the fight.”

You nodded, and Steve reluctantly nodded a few seconds later.

“Alright. Now that we've got that all settled: doll, turn back around. Don't even _think_ about turning around and peeking until I say you can. Stevie, over here.”

Not even wanting to consider the consequences of disobeying, you spun back around into the safety of the corner. You could hear poor Steve shuffling towards his fate, and you knew that a part of this lesson would involve having to listen to Steve getting a spanking – and you assumed the same would occur for him, when your turn came. Standing in the corner, with your eyes staring at the old yellow paint on the wall, was a devious way to force someone to listen to what was going on around them.

You tried to focus on the sounds coming from outside of Bucky's apartment (chirping birds, car horns and backfires, people shouting), instead of the more apparent noises of a belt being unbuckled (Steve's), clothes rustling (Steve lowering his trousers, or Bucky adjusting himself into a more comfortable position, or both), and the sound of someone landing over a lap. Obviously, you were failing, because you flinched when Bucky's hand finally came down across Steve's bottom with a loud smack, and the sound seemed to fill the entire apartment.

It wasn't much longer before everything around you was devoid of sound, except for the dreaded, incessant smacking of Bucky's hand. (It didn't sound like the sound of skin against skin, so you assumed that Steve had been allowed to keep his boxers. Not that it'd do much.) Depending on his mood (and whatever you or Steve had done), Bucky might decide to lecture in the middle of the spanking, since it forced whomever was over his knee to pay attention to what he was saying. Other times, he kept quiet until the very end. Either way, he always explained why the spanking was coming before everything started, and you knew from experience that Bucky would forgive you both once it was all over.

It didn't make your bottom hurt any less, but it was nice knowing he'd forgiven you after doing something stupid, or reckless, or whatever else.

You tried counting each second you spent in the corner to avoid counting the spanks you could hear, but you quickly lost count of the seconds when you realized your count lined up with each slap of Bucky's palm. You tried to block out the sound of Steve's grunting and whimpers, and you knew that poor noble fool was probably trying to hold back on crying in front of you and Bucky. However, when Steve did begin crying – softly, with small whimpers that you could hear him trying to suppress – your heart broke, and it wasn't long before you started sniffling from your corner.

“Steve,” Bucky finally started talking, and the sound of Steve being spanked mercifully came to an end. Whether temporarily or not, you weren't sure. “I genuinely have no idea what to say. You and I have talked _time_ after _time_ about getting into fights, and you still keep -” He cut himself off with a growl and the sound of several more slaps. Steve let out a yelp.

“I swear, if I have to do this one more time because of you picking fights, I might just use the strap on your sorry ass.” From what you'd gathered, the razor strap in Bucky's closet had belonged to his father, and Steve had never felt its burn (mainly because of his own frail physique). You'd felt it only once, after Bucky found out that you hadn't slept for four days because of a large, expensive order at work. Despite the increase in pay (and the commission), Bucky hadn't wanted you to risk your health, and he made that exceptionally clear.

“Bucky, I'm sorry,” Steve said, and you almost crumpled into tears at the sound of his voice. He was clearly crying, and in pain.

“I know you are,” Bucky said, then he sighed. “I'm just making sure it sticks this time. Hold on.” There were a few seconds of tense silence, before another slap came through the room: this time, it wasn't the staccato slap of Bucky's hand, but the loud _thunk_ of the coal brush. You winced at the noise, especially since it was followed by another yelp from Steve, and you counted ten awful swats with the coal brush. When you heard an awkward-sounding clatter, you realized that Bucky must have set the brush onto the floor – and, with the slaps being replaced by Steve's muffled sobbing, you prayed that the spanking was over.

From where you stood, as you heard the soft rustling of clothes, you tried focusing on every sound coming from the open window, instead of listening to Bucky's soft voice – now gentler than before, and so low that you knew whatever he was saying was meant only for Steve. The world was still clattering about, everyone unknowing of what was occurring within Bucky's small apartment. Some kids, based on how much they were yelling and the sound of cars honking, were playing ball in the street. You listened to several kids – probably eight or nine – go at bat before something touched your shoulder, and you jumped.

“Hey, hey, it's just me, doll,” Bucky said in a quiet soothing tone, and he gave your shoulder a squeeze. “I'm going to take Steve back to his apartment, and then I'm coming right back and we'll talk. I want you to stay in the corner while I'm gone, alright?”

You nodded a little, then you asked, “How long will you be gone?”

You felt Bucky press a kiss to the back of your head. “15, 20 minutes. Steve's only a few blocks away from here.” Then he added in a whisper, “Please be good for me, doll. I love you.” He gave you a kiss on your cheek, even though you knew a few tears of your own had slipped out at the sound of Steve crying, and it was only about thirty seconds later when the apartment door closed and the outside lock clicked loudly.

You were now alone, in a corner, waiting for your fella to return so he could spank you. Wonderful.

 


	4. April 1939

“Steve, this is going to be a disaster,” you muttered, peering at Steve through the mirror. You were trying to twist your hair into some resemblance of a curly bob, and you were failing miserably. You were also trying to avoid looking directly at anything other than your hair, before any childhood critiques could kicked in, and there wasn't any sort of make-up on your face. It was too much of a luxury to purchase, and Miss Ruth never said anything about it since it didn't effect how hard you worked. (Blanche was another topic entirely.) Still, you had finally managed to finish your dress, and it was very nice: after two tries, you made it work and you felt surprisingly confident in yourself while wearing it.

Poor Steve sat on the bed, quietly watching while you tried fixing yourself up, already dressed up himself in a second-hand suit. It once belonged to his father, apparently, who had been much taller than Steve, since you were the one to alter it to fit – not that you'd ever mention any of those things aloud. And it didn't look second hand! You had worked very hard to make it look presentable, and Steve had been shocked when you had shown it to him the week before.

“How can I ever pay you for this?” he'd said, and you had laughed.

“By not asking me to do it again, not for another few months.”

Your apartment door was wide open, so everyone knew nothing elicit was going on. The girls along the hallway knew Steve well enough already to know he wouldn't try anything: he visited constantly, and they all thought he was sweet.

“He's too skinny to date, though,” Dorothy, who lived directly across from you, said one afternoon. “I need someone with _muscle._ ” And the three other girls in the room had nodded along.

(You never mentioned that exchange to Steve. When he asked if any of them were single, you lied like hell to spare his feelings: “Don't even ask, Steve. They're all queer or share croppers.”)

You had successfully moved into your own apartment in February. It was in another section of New York – your mother was in the Bronx, and you were now in Brooklyn – but the rent was a good enough price for you to handle. It was a two-roomer, but both rooms were small, and it was located in an all-girls apartment. There was a community bathroom that was exceptionally well-kept, which you attested to because it always smelled like bleach. You had a fire escape landing attached to your bedroom, and there was enough space in the second room for a tiny kitchen. You had your bed, a dresser and a desk with your typewriter in the bedroom (with a small thesaurus under one of the desk legs). The kitchen (a fridge-freezer, a sink, and an oven with a stove top) and a nice-sized table were in the second room. Everything had come along with the cost of rent, but your landlord did say she'd lower the rent if you brought in your own furniture. You hadn't done that, but you figured if you lived here long enough, you might go for it.

As for your seamstress job, you were working more hours than in 1938, which was a blessing. Miss Ruth had even promised a four cents an hour raise, once Blanche left. Blanche had already willingly taken a deduction in hours, because of her wedding planning. In March, she had convinced some poor chuckle-head in Staten Island that she was pregnant (she wasn't), and they were set to be married by the end of June.

“June can't come fast enough,” Miss Ruth had muttered one day after Blanche left at the end of her shift, then she added, “Do the world a favor and _never_ be like her, alright, kid?”

You were still searching for a potential part-time position working for a newspaper, but so far, you'd been fruitless. You occasionally found an ad for a typist, but they always requested men. “I can type faster and better than anyone else,” you had ranted to Steve one day, when you found a position offering $1,200 a year as a secretary. “It ain't fair, Steve, I swear!”

“Maybe I should apply,” he'd remarked in a soft voice, and you immediately stopped moping and plopped him down into your desk chair before eyeing your watch.

“Start typing whatever I say, I'm timing you.”

He didn't get the job, but you _did_ find out that Steve was a fairly steady typist. Any time a typist job had come up since, you badgered him into applying.

The girls who lived on your floor were all different: striving dancers, secretaries for businessmen, mistresses of businessmen or sugar babies, prostitutes, hiding from abusive spouses, college girls or women in nursing school. It was a community entirely of women, and you all helped each other out. They knew if they brought you fabric scraps, or articles of clothing they no longer wanted, or decorative buttons, or colorful spools of thread, then you'd be willing to help them balance their checkbooks or fix holes in their wall.

Dorothy was hopeless with sewing and constantly had buttons pop off her shirts, but she could cook better than anyone else you knew: you two made trades often. Agatha further down the hall was an extremely tall, redhead photographer: in exchange for the promise of a professional photograph or two in the future, you took down the hems in all of her skirts and dresses. Maggie loved to tell stories but had difficulty sleeping: whenever she couldn't sleep, she would patter down to your room and unload her thoughts, and you would type everything as fast as you could. You also gave her the transcripts, and it gave you more practice. One night she'd noticed you had run out of ink, and she'd given you an entire box full of typewriter ribbons the next day. “I'm leaving my job to work in a better office anyway,” Maggie had said, nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders. “They won't miss it, and you'll get more use out of it than anyone else I know!” (You'd only used one of the ink ribbons since then, and there were at least thirty still in the box, probably more.)

Despite it all, your best friend was Steve, bless his skinny bones. He was calm and sweet, but also cheeky and prone to teasing you constantly, which you liked. You had a feeling that he wasn't interested in your romantically, and you were perfectly fine with that. You felt very protective over Steve nonetheless, whenever he had a coughing fit or left you be for a couple days because of a fever, but he constantly told you stories about a “Bucky”, whom you initially assumed was his brother. Steve always spoke fondly of him, and you hadn't faulted Steve for also wanting to spend time with his other friends, especially since Bucky (and Steve's mother) appeared to take care of him when he was sick.

The only downside to your friendship was that – between your work, and his sicknesses and searching for work that fit around his illnesses – you two didn't get to spend a lot of time together. And when you did, it was almost always at your apartment. He lived with his mother, Sarah, whom you learned was a nurse, and he didn't want either of you to have the wrong impressions of each other, which you respected.

Especially after the disaster that occurred the one time Steve met your mother in early February, shortly before the move. You had told your mother the story of the skinny boy having a dress altered for his mother, and she hadn't been surprised to find out that you had befriended him when he'd returned after Christmas to have more things tailored. Your mother had practically adored Steve from the moment he stepped through the door, but that hadn't left him free of criticism.

“You're so, so _skinny_ though! Skinnier than I could ever imagine!” your mother had said, right to Steve's face while looking him up and down. And when she saw your jaw drop and Steve start blushing heavily, she had added, “Any boy who's as good to his mama as you are, though, is better than any of the other bums I've met since we moved here.” The blush on Steve's face hadn't left until both of you were on the subway. You both silently vowed to never talk about it again.

Now, after knowing Steve for about four-and-a-half months, you two were going on a double-date. But not with each other, which had been a strange thing for Steve to explain to you when he brought it up.

“Bucky thinks I won't ever find a girl,” Steve had said, in what was a surprisingly small voice. “He keeps setting me up on dates, but none of 'em ever work out right. I, I finally convinced him if I went on a double-date with him like he asked, I'd be the one to find his date.”

“Did you find one, Steve?”

Steve shook his head. “No. I, I don't know who to ask. I kinda...” His voice trailed off, then he started speaking very quickly, as if his nerve would fade away if he spoke at a regular pace, “I kinda wanted to ask you to go, for Bucky's date, so I'd at least know one of the girls who'd be coming and be less nervous, in case everything goes wrong, but I don't want you to worry about going on a date if you don't want to, and I -”

“Steve, Steve! Breathe, before your asthma kicks in!” And you had put your hands on his shoulders and exaggerated breathing in and out until Steve followed along. “Good. Your friend Bucky set a day yet?”

Steve shook his head.

“My calender's over there. Go pick a day I'm not working. Just let him know if I find out he's active duty, I'm slugging him.” You figured that, out of everyone in New York, Steve truly meant no harm. He usually had enough common sense in his head, so what was the worst that could happen?

That conversation had been two weeks ago, and in the meantime, your dress had been finished, you'd altered Steve's suit, and the girls of the hallway had squealed at the sound of you getting a date. “You're 19, you oughta have some fun,” said Dorothy, who was 23 and went to parties constantly. You were borrowing a pair of her shoes since they matched your dress, despite being a half-size too small.

“You promise me he's not some doll dizzy who's going around for a good time, right?” you asked Steve softly, feeling a little guilty for making him wait twenty minutes for you to get ready – even though he had arrived thirty minutes early.

“I promise,” Steve said with a smile. “And if I'm wrong and he is, punch him extra hard, for us both. He boxes, he can take it.”

You knew what Bucky looked like prior to the date. As a precaution, you supposed, Steve had brought a high school yearbook to your apartment a few days before the date, so you could guess what you were in for. Part of you had been expecting someone as skinny as Steve himself – or someone missing a limb, considering how nervous poor Steve acted when he passed over the book.

It hadn't been even remotely difficult to find _James Buchanan Barnes_ in the yearbook. It was almost as if he was on every page, in several photographs: clubs, societies, walking down halls, sitting at assemblies. Student Honors Committee. Football team. Boxing. Debate. Science Club. He was certainly photogenic – and that was putting it mildly. Bucky was _nice_ to look at: his class picture alone made that distinctly clear.

There were also notes and comments scribbled into every nook and cranny of the flyleaves and the two pages deemed for signatures: all from faculty (raving about how intelligent he was) and female students (how handsome, charming, _oh please please write me Bucky, you beautiful boy you!_ ). When Steve seemed bashful, noticing how your lips were pursing together at the comments – or, perhaps, being embarrassed that _his_ only photograph was under his mandatory class photo, you laughed it off and said, “Oh, he's lucky I didn't meet him a few years. I would've _hated_ him. Science club: what a drip. This is a _good_ picture of you, Steve!”

Thankfully, that got Steve laughing too.

**~ * ~**

According to Steve, there was a diner a couple of blocks away from Bucky's apartment that all four of you were meeting at, and once you were all finished eating, you would go dancing with your respective dates. Steve seemed rather nervous about dancing, and, to be honest, so were you. Your mother had taught you how to dance, but you hadn't been to a dance hall since you graduated: you didn't have the time. Still, you kept quiet, and you and Steve chatted while riding the subway to practically the other end of Brooklyn, before he found the diner. You could tell from the large windows that very few people were inside, and you saw Bucky right away – because he was waving at Steve from where he sat the moment you both turned the corner.

The diner itself was very nice, built sturdy like a train car, and everything was either silver or a dark red. You could smell grease from the moment you stepped inside, and for some reason, it was like a bizarre form of heaven. It had been _months_ since you'd had something greasy, and the idea of having a burger and fries made you practically giddy.

That giddiness immediately went away when Bucky stood out of his seat to greet you both (“So, this is the one I've been hearing about for weeks, huh, Stevie?”), and the girl Bucky had brought also stood when he prompted her to.

She was absolutely beautiful. Tall, with legs for days, and an aura that was holier-than-thou. Every part of her appearance was perfect: her dress showed off her figure, her posture was flawless, her hair was pinned and curled like in a magazine, and – to top it all off – she was wearing several shades of expensive make-up. After spending months working with Blanche, you could spot expensive make-up from a mile away.

You knew, in your heart and in your head, that girls shouldn't pit themselves against other girls, because then nobody got anywhere. But, _God_ , you were praying for an excuse to hate her other than for her appearance. Was it petty? Yes, definitely. But did you care? No. You had been feeling great seconds before, and now you felt inadequate.

“Steve, this is Dolores Marlowe. Dot, this is Steve, he's your date tonight.”

Dolores Marlowe. Why did that sound familiar? She hadn't gone to St. Gabriel's. She'd probably had something altered at the shop at one point or another: you were the one to label all the orders.

Regardless, Dolores didn't seem too pleased with that information, nor did she make any attempt to hide that from her face. “ _James_ ,” she said, her lips barely moving as she forced the words out, a thin layer of false sweetness in her tone. “You said _you_ were my date tonight.”

You recognized that expression immediately after seeing it enough from the Ozarks: the scorned woman, the unhappy girlfriend, the girl who would not be pushed aside, all of which were now for a rather petty reason. From the way Steve awkwardly shifted from foot to foot beside you, he had clearly picked up on this as well, so there was definitely a calamity brewing.

Poor Bucky's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. Either he was missing the social cue, or pretending to miss it by ignoring it completely. Both of which you found vaguely commendable, if not uncomfortable while all four of you stood around. “Dot, I never said that. I saw we all were going on a double-date.”

“James, that's _not_ what a double-date implies! How could you: putting a girl off onto someone they don't know.”

“Of _course_ you know Steve! We all went to George Washington together -”

“We _weren't_ in the same year, James. I didn't know him, and now you're _pushing_ _me off_ -”

“Well, Dot, what I meant was -”

“If you both are gonna argue like you're married already, there's a church a couple blocks down that way,” you said, pointing out the window towards your left and splitting direct eye contact between Dolores and Bucky. “You can get hitched and just make it all official instead of making a big ol' scene, and Steve and me will stay here and enjoy some burgers by ourselves. Y'know, _in_ _peace_.”

There were several tense seconds of silence. You could see Steve in your peripherals, lowering his head and his shoulders shaking from struggling to keep from laughing, while Bucky seemed to be biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Dolores still appeared unraveled, so you took it upon yourself to make the most of it and sat down. (“Don't even think about it,” you said when both Steve and Bucky reached a hand forward to pull out the chair.) You weren't surprised when Bucky sat across from you, with Dolores by his side and Steve by yours.

Miraculously, the four of you managed to order your food without any sort of hassle. Somewhere between your order of a cheeseburger and fries and a milkshake, and Dolores' of a salad and a diet soda, however, Steve recognized that Dolores was not going to be paying any attention to him after she had given Bucky _a look_ for the third time in as many minutes. So, to compensate, you made sure to pay some attention to Bucky – and didn't act petty when Dolores did her darnedest to steal it. Every. Single. Time. After the fifth or sixth time, to your surprise, you actually stopped being annoyed by it, since it'd started becoming funny: almost like a spoiled child, always used to getting her own way and suddenly being rejected.

However, whenever Bucky started paying attention to Dolores, you would lightly tap your heel against Steve's ankle, and he would kick Bucky's shin. It was almost as if Steve could read your mind, or maybe the two of you were just so good at teasing others. You didn't want to know. (Although, the idea of a pair of mind twins who used their powers to tease people would make a great radio show, you thought.) The first couple of times, Bucky managed to ignore it with a wince, but when _you_ finally kicked him, he realized you and Steve were in cahoots with each other.

“Settle down, children,” he said in a playfully scolding tone, and you stuck out your tongue at him.

“So, Stevie here mentioned that you have a brother,” Bucky started to ask, after your food arrive several minutes later. It was a little slow at the diner, probably since there was only one cook and one waitress, but that was fine. You and Steve were enjoying yourselves, and Bucky seemed to be as well, but it honestly bothered you that Dolores still hadn't looked in Steve's direction since all of you sat down.

“Yeah, his name's Kenneth,” you answered, raising your eyebrows a little. “Why you asking? You gonna ask him out next?”

Steve appeared to inhale about half of his milkshake, and he started coughing and excused himself from the table to go to the men's room. Dolores looked horrified, but Bucky was eyeing you in a way that... well, it was kind of nice. Like he was sizing you up, but in a mental way instead of a physical way; like he was trying to figure out what to say next without saying something inappropriate. (Or, you guessed, inappropriate for a first date.)

“You're _real_ cheeky, doll, you know that?” he eventually asked, and you nodded.

“I know. It's one of my best qualities. How do you think I get along with Steve so well?”

“Yeah, well, I can't argue that. But I better go check on him,” Bucky said with a sigh, getting up the table without a further word to either of you, and you kept sipping on your milkshake as Dolores' eyes followed Bucky into the men's restroom before turning on you.

You waited several seconds for her to say something, anything, but when she only continued to glare, you said, “Your face is gonna get stuck that way.”

Dolores humphed and leaned back in her chair, sipping her diet coke and eyeing the men's bathroom door in her peripheral.

You weren't entirely sure why you found yourself caring, but you were suddenly curious. And any sort of curiosity was better than looking at both of your plates and seeing that you were further along with your food that she or Bucky was. (You knew somehow, subconsciously. You _knew_ , but seeing it was a different kind of reality you didn't feel like facing on the first date.) “So, were you and Bucky in the same year in high school or something?”

“Yes,” she said, in a pouty sort of voice. “We were. I was hoping the whole time that we'd be sweethearts.”

You suddenly realized where you remembered her name from: Bucky's yearbook. Her name had been scribbled in across the back flyleaf, along with, _If you ever need a girl to sit on your lap, James!_ And it also occurred to you that Steve might have read that comment as well – before coming on this date, or over your shoulder a few days ago, or any time before then.

“I don't know who Buck's bringing,” Steve had mentioned on the subway ride over. “He wouldn't tell me. All he said was that she was real nice.”

“Steve's a sweetheart,” you said, not entirely sure why you were bothering. Truth be told, Steve deserved someone nicer than Dolores had been acting, but people could change, right? Everything could be swell if she took some of that niceness towards Bucky and aimed it towards Steve. “I'm sure you'd like him if you gave him a chance.”

“He's too skinny,” Dolores said scornfully, with a shake of her head. “No man ought to be so skinny. That can't be _healthy._ ”

“That's above my pay grade,” you said, finishing off your milkshake and trying to bottle up how angry you were – and failing miserably. You had _tried_ playing nice, but that just wasn't going to cut it, apparently. “But I guess being stupid and having buck teeth isn't healthy either, and you've got that in _spades._ ”

Dolores' eyes grew wide, and her mouth thin. “Now, you listen -”

Someone nearby cleared their throat, and you turned your head to see both Bucky and Steve standing there. Steve, his hands pitifully in his pockets and red-faced and not making eye contact with anyone. Bucky, having been the one to make the sound, with his arms confidentially across his chest and giving you both a stern expression. “You two dames getting along here?”

“We're just swell,” you said in a serene voice, which was an interesting contrast to Dolores' clipped, “Just peachy, James.”

The rest of the meal was spent in silence.

**~ * ~**

“You think he's actually gonna meet up with us?” you asked Steve, carefully crossing the street towards the dance hall, just the two of you, and Steve shrugged.

“Buck said he would, and I trust him.”

As soon as everything was eaten and paid for, Dolores had claimed that she felt ill the moment the four of you stepped outside. You and Steve both immediately recognized the lie, and perhaps Bucky did too, but Steve nonetheless offered to walk her home. She had politely declined and claimed she could walk home herself – then jumped to the chance when Bucky offered to walk her home. You almost said something rude about it, but Steve grabbed your wrist and gave it a squeeze to shut you up (it worked), and Bucky had promised to meet up with you both at the dance hall once Dolores got home.

You nodded, then you said, “I bet she's a hooker. I bet she's gonna offer to suck him off in an alley or something while he's walking her home.”

Steve was silent for several seconds. “You're awful.”

“Aww, Stevie, you're blushing.”

“Stop it.”

“Like a _schoolgirl_.”

“Buck's right: you're too cheeky for a girl.”

“You got that right.” And both of you were smiling a tad once you got into the dance hall, even though Steve's ears were still red once you found a place to sit. Both of you were content to watch everyone else dance for a couple of minutes, before you noticed how crest-fallen Steve looked. “Steve.”

He made a little grunt of acknowledgment, so you continued,

“Oh, don't act that way. I didn't mean what I said earlier, and you don't need to mope about one bad date. We all have 'em.”

Steve was very quiet for a moment, before he said, “It was because of, of my... my size, isn't it?” And he made a small gesture towards his torso. You knew this conversation would crop up eventually, and as much as you wanted to spare Steve's feelings, that wasn't honest, and the Lord knew how much Steve needed honest friends instead of bullies.

You gave him a small smile and a shrug, but then you added, “I know this probably won't make you feel any better – and this is just my intuition, mind – but I don't think she would've looked at you, even if you looked like all those fellas out there.” And you gestured towards the dance floor. “She had her mind set on Bucky, and she wasn't going to steer away. That's _not_ your fault, only her own.”

Steve absorbed that information with a few nods, before he said, in a quiet voice, “I know you and Buck are trying to help, but I know I'm a lost case. Practically every date that Bucky's found for me, he's tricked into coming.” You could tell that these worries had been plaguing Steve for probably longer than you'd known him, so you let him get it out while you ordered a few ginger ales for you both. He eventually winded down after a couple of minutes, finishing with, “Sometimes, I... I just wish I could get a girl to dance with me. Just so, so I can know what it's like.”

“Well, who do I look like then, Stevie? Larry, Moe and Curly all together?”

Steve looked confused for a moment, then it clicked in his brain that he'd been complaining about girl troubles to his only female friend. “Oh, no, no, I-I didn't mean it like that -”

“Yes you did, and it's fine,” you cut him off, standing and grabbing for his hand, ushering him to stand as well. “A couple of dances won't hurt you, and it'll get you practice for when you go steady with someone else!”

**~ * ~**

Bucky didn't show up. He told you and Steve he would be back in about a half-hour at the latest, and after two hours, he was still absent. Still, you two made the most of it: you and Steve both clumsily danced on the floor, making sure to stay clear of anyone who knew what they were doing, and you both had fun.

It wasn't until Steve was escorting you to your apartment around eleven when he brought up the question: “Do you think you'd see Bucky again if he asked?”

You were quiet for several moments, before you admitted, “Yeah, I think I would.”

After all, whenever Dolores hadn't been vying for his attention, Bucky had actually been charming and fun to talk to. He was flirty but not rude, and he never underestimated your intelligence. You respected that.

“Just, not another double-date,” you added, not wanting another disaster on the list. “Maybe something with all three of us, so it'd be more of a get-to-know thing.”

“Wasn't that supposed to be tonight?” Steve said, scratching his nose.

“Yeah, and look how well that worked out.”

Steve didn't argue. He knew you were right.

**~ * ~**

You didn't see or hear from Steve for another couple of days, mainly because you were busy with work and you knew he had an art exam coming up. It wasn't until the fourth day after the date when you returned to the apartment and Dorothy poked her head into the hallway.

“Hey, Steve came by for you earlier. He said he was in a hurry, so he left you this,” and she handing over an envelope that had once been sealed but no longer was. Nosy. “And congratulations!”

“I'm fairly certain didn't win anything, Dorothy,” you said, heading into your apartment and shutting the door before opening the letter. It was in Steve's writing, but it was a little sloppy:

 

_Buck said sorry for bailing out on us. Dolores “forgot” which apartment building she lived in twice and lead him all over Brooklyn until after midnight. He's been tearing himself up about it for the past couple of days, but he said your idea about the three of us going to dinner was real swell. He wants to know if the diner would be okay again, whenever you have a day off. He also kept calling you a “cheeky punk”, but he was always smiling when he said it, so I don't think he meant it. (He also said a whole bunch of other stuff too, but I think he oughta say all that in person instead of me putting it down here.)_

_Please give him a shot? Steve._

_P.S. You were right. Alley of 10_ _th_ _and Wallis. I've never seen Buck so_ _ ANGRY _ _in my life._

 

You collapsed into giggles onto your bed and didn't stop until there were tears in the corner of your eyes. You reminded yourself to check your calendar when you could breathe properly again.

 


	5. September 1940

Bucky was right: he was only gone for about twelve minutes. But for you, that felt like two hours, standing in the corner with only silence and your own thoughts to keep you company. The children outside the apartment had stopped their game, and the flock of birds by the window had flown off somewhere else. When you heard someone fiddling with the lock, you'd felt a sense of panic, but once the door opened and Bucky said, “It's just me, doll,” the panic faded away to relief. Relief quickly turned into dread.

You were glad that Bucky was back, but on the other hand, you weren't. You knew what was coming, and it wasn't going to be nice.

“You can come out of the corner,” Bucky called from the little kitchen, “Make your way over here.” And you obeyed, even though you were nervous. But Bucky was only pulling some ice from the freezer and placing it into a rag. “Sit down, baby. I should've done this before sending you into the corner, but I didn't realize that 'til after I left.”

When you sat down in one of the three chairs by the table, he pulled out his own chair and handed the rag of ice over, and you placed it over your eye. You flinched slightly under the pressure and how cold it was, and Bucky took your open hand in one of his own. “That feel any better?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Look at me, doll. With the good eye,” Bucky said, noticing when your eyes wandered to the floor. When you obeyed, he gave your hand an affectionate squeeze and continued: “You and I have talked about endangering yourself before. I know you don't mean to do these things, but you have a brain in that head. You have some common sense, and you need to _use_ _it_ instead of getting into fights and finding trouble. I don't need my best girl turning into Steve.”

You giggled a little at that, and Bucky gave you a small smile.

“Baby, I don't mind you standing up for yourself or for other people. I'm proud of you every time you do. But I don't want you biting off more than you can chew, especially when something like this happens.” He gestured to your covered eye with his open hand. “Do you understand?”

You nodded, because you knew exactly what he meant. You could verbally defend yourself until the Earth stopped turning, but you weren't much of a physical fighter. You had once asked Bucky to teach you, since he was a boxer, but he said no. Steve had shown you how to properly throw a punch without hurting your hand, and your father had explained that the best way to get out of a fight was to “punch 'em in the throat and run”. That was roughly the extent of your knowledge.

“Good.” And Bucky's voice grew firmer. “If I _ever_ find that you've gotten into a fight again, doll, I'm going to take that razor strap you hate so much out of my closet, and I'll strap your bottom raw every day for a week.”

“I won't, Bucky, I promise,” you whimpered. He gave your hand a little squeeze, and you moved the rag away from your eye.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

You shrugged and admitted, “It's gone numb.”

Bucky chuckled. “It's better than being in pain, I suppose,” and he carefully removed the rag from your hand. “Why don't you go pick up the brush off the floor and wait for me while I put this away.” It sounded vaguely like a request, but you knew it wasn't.

When you both stood, Bucky pulled you closer for a moment to press a kiss to your forehead, before he gently pushed you towards the living area. You collected the dreaded coal brush off the floor, where it had almost slid under the chair, and you could see in your peripherals that Steve had placed your shoes near the doorway, right beside Bucky's. For a few seconds, you contemplated getting rid of the coal brush. Hiding it under the chair cushion. Cracking open the window and tossing it outside. Something.

However, before you could do anything, Bucky came up beside you and plucked the implement from your hands. He pecked your cheek and offered, “Good girl,” in an affectionate tone. Tapping the brush against his palm, Bucky sat and gestured for you to stand by his side. When you moved, he placed a gentle hand on your hip – the one _not_ holding the brush.

“I love you so, so much. I don't ever want you to be in any kind of pain. But I promise that I will spank you _every_ _single_ _time_ you do something stupid if it will make you think before you act, even though I _hate_ causing you pain or seeing you cry. I want you to be _safe._ ”

Before you could start sniffling at Bucky's obvious concern for you, he took your wrist and urged you over his muscular lap. You squeaked at the sudden change in scenery – the worn wooden floor-planks and the fraying carpet – especially since you had to plant your hands in front of you to keep steady. Bucky knew that you would get dizzy when your head was down like this for a long period of time, so the spanking wouldn't be very lengthy, but without a doubt, he would make up for the time.

You let out a disgruntled mewl when you felt Bucky easing your skirt and the edge of your slip over your bottom. It wasn't the first time he'd seen that part of you, nor would it be the last, but there was always an element of personal embarrassment to it when you wound up over his lap. Part of you was kind of glad that Steve was no longer around.

“You say something down there, doll?” Bucky asked in a firm tone, now moving your panties down your legs to the hollow of your kneecaps. They wouldn't move down much further if you kicked in this position, because your garters would catch them, but that didn't make showing your bare bottom off any easier. “It sounded like you were about to fuss.”

There had been a few times previously when you'd kicked up a fight over Bucky raising your skirt or moving your panties out of the way, or became argumentative over why you were getting spanked, especially in the beginning. Most of it had stemmed from personal embarrassment, and while that had waned considerably since the beginning, it still cropped up on occasion.

You shook your head, despite the fact that you could feel your face heating up. Bucky's hand was rubbing your right cheek. A warning. “No, Bucky.”

“That's good to hear,” he said. “This will be hard enough as is without you being obstinate.” The second Bucky's hand moved, you knew everything was about to start, but that didn't keep you from letting out a yelp when the sharp sting blossomed across your bottom, and the sound of Bucky's hand against your flesh filled the apartment.

Getting a spanking from Bucky hurt, plain and simple. There was absolutely no beating around the bush about it. His splayed fingers and flattened palm practically licked across your bottom with a sharpness that took your breath away. Every swat ignited a stinging spark, which grew further across the entirety of your rear and to the tops of your thighs as Bucky's hand fell with a repetitive pattern. It wasn't long before you could feel tears starting to blur your vision; your pain tolerance – or, rather, your pain tolerance for a spanking – was very low. Once you started sniffling and squirming a little over his lap, Bucky's hand stopped raining down, and he rubbed your sore skin carefully. His palm was already warm, but you knew that your rear was nowhere near red. You weren't a fool: you knew it wasn't over _that_ quickly.

“I don't ever want to have this conversation again,” Bucky said, “Not for something like this. If I hadn't shown up, those men could have broken any number of yours or Steve's bones. You could have been covered in bruises or lying in a hospital somewhere. Do you realize what kind of pain you could have gotten from a stunt like that? It would've broken my heart if I would've had to take you or Steve to the hospital today. I know you were trying to defend someone, I know, but I need you to think _before_ you act from now on. Because if you don't, you'll wind up here, _every_ _single_ _time._ ”

By the end of Bucky's lecture, there were definitely a few tears running down your cheeks, and you let out a whimper when you felt the cold coal brush tapping gently against your right cheek. If Bucky was breaking out the brush _this_ early into the spanking, well... you weren't going to be sitting comfortably for a while.

“I'm not going to lie, doll,” Bucky said, the coal brush still tapping away at your sore cheek. “This is going to be a scorcher.” That was an _awful_ pun, but it was something Bucky always said whenever he brought out the coal brush – and you knew he wasn't wrong. “You alright down there? No dizziness?”

Ever since you'd (almost) accidentally vomited on the ugly carpeting in Steve's apartment after being turned over Bucky's knee, he always made sure to ask that during any spanking where you weren't on a singular level, such as a bed or a couch. It was a kind gesture, you knew, and you appreciated it, but it wasn't one you exactly wanted to hear _during_ a spanking: it only meant more was on the way.

You sniffled a little before shaking your head. “I, I don't feel dizzy,” you murmured and quickly added, “C-Can you hold m-my hand?” After all, with the brush, if Bucky didn't end up taking one of your hands, you would probably try to reach back to shield your bottom, and that tactic never worked.

“Of course,” he said, his voice gentle, and you moved your right hand back. While you steadied yourself with your left, Bucky took your hand with his own – the one not wielding the coal brush – and held it. He gave it a reassuring squeeze before the brush came down moments later, and you let out a loud yelp.

The brush felt harsh against your skin and had a different sort of pressure than Bucky's hand: his hand was stingy and warm, with every swat blending in together to create layers of soreness in your bottom; the brush slapped down, with each swat individually making you wail as the soreness twisted into burning. Your bottom burned under the aggression of the brush, and you could practically feel the heat radiating off of your bottom as Bucky created a circuit of swats around the fleshiest parts of your rear and the sit-spots: all of the places where you would feel the pain whenever your legs moved or when you sat down later.

There was no other option than to cry, at this point. Tears were flowing freely down your face, your pitiful squirms on Bucky's lap to get away from the pain were fruitless, and you were wailing rather loudly. You were not like Steve: you could not keep quiet during an entire spanking, especially when an implement was used. It wasn't in your nature, and Bucky seemed to understand that.

It wasn't until after several minutes with the brush when your legs felt too heavy to kick, and your tears had turned into sobbing. You heard Bucky say, “No more fighting, doll. Ever. Alright?”

“No m-mooorrrrre,” you somehow mewled out, shaking your head rapidly. “N-No mo-more figh-ing, I-I prom-mise...” You absolutely hated speaking while you were in tears: it altered your speech in a way that was almost child-like, since you struggled to get enough air into your lungs to breath _and_ to continue crying _and_ to talk. It was all too much.

Thankfully, you heard the clunk of the coal brush falling to the floor, and you could feel Bucky let go of your hand and start to move your panties back in place (probably for modesty's sake more than anything else), even though the feeling of cotton against sore skin wasn't pleasant. Once he helped you back to your feet, with your skirt and shift falling back into place, he gave you a second for you to wipe at your cheeks with your hands, before he wrapped an arm around your waist and gently eased you back into his lap – this time, sitting on his knees, right side up.

The pressure against your bottom brought more tears to your eyes, but you quickly wrapped your arms around Bucky's chest and sobbed into the crook of his shoulder. His own arms enveloped you, cuddling you closer, and you felt him kiss your head several times in a row. He was rubbing his knuckles up and down your back with one hand, and the other was around your waist, holding you steady in his lap.

Out of everything that came from getting spanked, you supposed that this was the one good thing: regardless of what you'd done, when it was all over, Bucky would – without fail – hold you in his lap and offer comfort until your tears were gone and your emotions were more balanced. He never rushed you, and he never left you to sort through everything on your own. You appreciated that, and the consistency of it also helped reaffirm your trust with one another. There was a bizarre necessity for physical affection that came with the aftermath of a spanking, and Bucky was perfect for it. His cuddles were just really, really wonderful.

“It's okay, baby,” Bucky cooed softly, moving his arm from your back to stroke your hair as your tears started to slow. “It's okay. It's alright.” He kissed the side of your temple. “Do you want me to go and get some more ice for your eye?”

You shook your head, even though you were still pressed against Bucky's shoulder.

“No? You're not dizzy or sleepy now, are you?” It wouldn't have been the first time falling asleep while cuddling in Bucky's lap, after all. (He hadn't taken offense to it, thankfully. He'd found it more amusing than anything.)

“No,” you said softly, sniffling a little and moving back a little to wipe your face with one of your hands. “I'm s-sorry Steve and I ruined your day.”

To your surprise, Bucky chuckled. “Ruined my day? I get to spend the afternoon with my best girl. How can that ruin my day?” He kissed your nose, and you gave him a little smile. “There it is! I've missed that smile of yours. Hey, don't go hiding now!” he whined when you pressed your face against his chest in embarrassment. “You don't have anything to hide from me, doll, especially that pretty face of yours.”

“Buckyyy,” you whined in a small voice, and you wrapped your arms around his chest again when Bucky rocked you a little in his lap.

He pressed another kiss to the side of your head. “I love you, doll. I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you murmured, your voice slightly muffled. You sniffled a little and asked, “Bucky?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I want to throw that coal brush into the ocean.”

Bucky's only reply was a deep-bellied laugh and to cuddle you closer.


	6. June 1939

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired slightly through several comments, requesting information on how Bucky and the Reader settled upon a domestic discipline-like relationship. I also wanted Bucky and the Reader to have a healthy talk about what they both expected out of a relationship with each other, and there will definitely be a few more discussions in the future. I hope you guys don't mind: I enjoy reading and writing about healthy relationships. :)

In hindsight, you shouldn't have been surprised when the conversation came up. You weren't truly _surprised_ , but you _were_ shocked. And there was a difference. Surprised involved parties and presents and holidays: kisses in the rain, an especially tasty two-cent ice cream, cuddling while dancing to the radio in your fella's apartment. Shocked involved falling asleep on the fire escape and waking up in the middle of the night to rain; Steve suddenly getting an asthma attack on the walk back to his home; finding out that your fella wants to toss you over his knee and spank you.

It wasn't an uncommon thing: you knew that. Your mother had never been treated that way by your father – probably because he'd once had a healthy dose of fear towards her. But there had been many others you'd seen: female teachers at St. Gabriel's who tried to balance their professions and housework (and, according to their husbands, failed); housewives of the Ozarks who back-talked their husbands or stated their opinions. Magazines, radio plays, and movies that treated women as if all of their behaviors were on the same level as a child's, until they reached the bedroom. Advertisements for coffee and tea and cooking supplies bearing cautionary tales, claiming that _the_ newest line of appliance products or _their_ specific brand of coffee was the only thing keeping a woman from physical repercussion. You'd grown up reading comics of _Little Orphan Annie, Little Iodine,_ and _Little Lulu_ , where women – both adult and children – were constantly spanked. As a little kid, you hadn't thought about these things. It wasn't until you were older, and following your parents' divorce, when you brought these musings up to your mother.

You had been walking home from St. Gabriel's, still in your uniform and trying to get home as quickly as possible, when you caught sight of a man and a woman – in their late-20's at the very oldest. The man had the woman tucked under his arm like a sack, and he was whacking away at her rear with all of his might, and she was yelling like crazy. They were on the other side of the street, right outside a barber shop, and several men who could see them through the window appeared to be clapping: egging him on with applause.

“Hey, leave her alone!” you found yourself shouting, hands clenched into fists. The man ceased, his arm raised in the air, and he looked up to see where the noise was coming from. He glared at you from where he stood, but he nonetheless let go of the woman, who immediately took several steps back and started rubbing the offended area. Her makeup was running, and her face was crimson from humiliation and tears. She did not look in your direction.

“You watch your mouth, girl, or your daddy will do the same to you!” the man yelled, before he grabbed the woman's wrist and started dragging her down the street, in the opposite direction you were going. You hadn't followed them – although you had wanted to, just to give that man a piece of your mind – but you brought it up at dinner a few hours later. It was just the two of you, with Kenneth working at the diner, so you knew you both could have heart-to-heart chats about female things like boys or your own body without your brother acting repulsed.

“Is... is this sort of thing... normal? When you're in a relationship. 'Cause it's everywhere, or else I would just think that man today was one in a million,” you'd said, carefully savoring your chicken pie. It was boiled chicken, carrot slices and some gravy cooked over the stove with slices of cornbread, but it was much better than an empty stomach.

Your mother was quiet for several moments before she said, in a soft tone, “Do you remember your Aunt Cassie?”

Aunt Cassie was your mother's older sister. She had married your Uncle Charles in 1906, and they owned a large plot of land by the coast in Maine. You hadn't seen her since you were about nine-years-old, and you had never met Uncle Charles, but she had written letters often. “Yeah.”

“She married Charles because she thought he was good for her: he paid for dates, brought her flowers, was the perfect gentleman. She loved him. And when she married him, she found out that he was an alcoholic. He drank, he would hit her, and he would drink again. She'd, she would write to be about... black eyes, swollen lips, broken bones. He pushed her down the stairs. Beat their son with a belt across his entire body 'til he bled and would throw him against walls... I don't know how she survived. Survives. They're still married. Somehow. I suppose she thinks a divorce would be more shameful than keeping quiet, but I, I disagree.”

Your mother's voice had a far off quality to it, and you were certain that she was somewhere inside of her own head, lost in memories and stories from Aunt Cassie's letters. You didn't dare interrupt.

“When I found out I was pregnant with Kenneth, I... I was so scared your father might change, that, that he might become another version of Charles. And I told him if he ever touched either of you, anywhere, I'd bash his head in with a fire poker.”

After hearing about Aunt Cassie, you weren't even remotely surprised: that would explain why you'd never been spanked at home. You had gotten into trouble a few times at school and paddled in various principals offices by female staff members, but never by your own parents. They'd always punished you by making you scrub floors with toothbrushes, taken away your typewriter for a couple of days, or (your least favorite) made you run laps up and down your long driveway with your father watching and timing you with his watch. “Did... Did Dad ever hit you? In any way?” you asked softly when your mother was quiet for several seconds.

“No, he never did,” your mother said, her voice returning to normal. “He never laid a hand on me. I had a much steadier head on my shoulders than your father, and he knew that.” If _that_ wasn't the truth, nothing was.

“But, but is delivering a spanking the same as, as hitting someone? Or abusing someone?”

“It can be. Abuse has to do with a lack of trust, and, and breaking trust... and harming your partner on purpose. It means broken bones and blood, and cheating and lying, and manipulation, and anything in-between.” Your mother scratched her nose in thought and continued, “What you need to understand about relationships is that every single one is different. People want different things, and what is good for one couple can be awful for another.”

“So one couple might be okay with getting spanked, and another might not?”

Your mother nodded. “Hon, no matter what kind of relationship you have, you need to understand this: something important like _that_ needs to be communicated with your spouse before it happens. If they don't go talking to you about it beforehand, then they're treating you without any kind of decency and they aren't worth their weight in salt. And if you both talk about it, but neither of you can agree on something and they go on ahead with it anyway, even after you said no – run for the hills.”

**~ * ~**

It was sometime during the get-together date following the disaster date when you realized that you enjoyed spending time with Bucky, just like you enjoyed spending time with Steve. Except, of course, you had never wanted to kiss Steve: he was your friend, a very dear and beloved friend – but _Bucky_. You were almost done with your milkshake and you were listening to Bucky talk about some escapade he'd gotten into Steve when they were younger, when you realized that if he kissed you, you would have completely been alright with it. You hadn't been kissed in your entire life, and you _wanted_ him to kiss you.

At the end, after the three of you headed back to your apartment (since it was farther away from Bucky's than Steve's was), he asked if you would be willing to see him again. Your enthusiastic _yes_ had made him laugh. You'd been slightly concerned that Steve might end up feeling like a third wheel – which was something you didn't want to happen, under any circumstance – but that never occurred. When Steve wasn't around, you and Bucky got along swell, and when Steve _was_ around, it was the three of you together, having fun. All three of you were so, so happy in each other's company, and that in itself was a blessing.

On your third date, you and Bucky had gotten rained on during your picnic in the park, and he'd kissed you on the lips after returning you to your apartment that night, even though you both were sopping wet. It had come as a complete surprise to you, and Bucky had snickered at how much you were blushing when you pulled away. “You're blushing like a schoolgirl, doll,” he'd teased, then added when you didn't respond, “Hasn't anyone kissed you before?” When you'd shook your head, thoroughly embarrassed, he shrugged and said, “Good thing I'm here then,” and given you a second kiss.

You'd known Bucky all of two months, but it felt like you'd known him for years. He was sweet and charming and sharp as a thumbtack, and you genuinely felt happier when you were around him. Not that you were _un_ happy when he wasn't around: you weren't, but he filled light and love into corners of your heart that you didn't realize had existed.

By the time June rolled around, you had been _officially_ going steady for a month (and having dates together for a month and a half). There were a sporadic amount of dates with the two of you – depending on your work schedule at the shop, and Bucky's schedules at his own work and classes with Steve – and many more regular days with the three of you all together.

On _that_ particular day, Bucky had arrived at your apartment in a nice shirt and some dark slacks, with a disheartened expression. “Steve had a real bad asthma attack earlier today,” he said, when you looked confused at only him standing in the door. The three of you had been planning on seeing a movie, even though you and Steve had a tendency to whisper things to each other until Bucky shushed you both. “He's alright; he's just feeling poor, and Mrs. Rogers thought he ought to stay home instead of coming with us.”

“Do you think we should go and make sure he's alright?” you asked, putting on your coat. You knew that Mrs. Rogers was a nurse, and that Steve was in the best of hands, but he was still your friend.

“You think we'd still be going to a movie if I thought he was doing bad, doll?” Bucky replied mildly, giving you a peck on the cheek. Secretly, he was quite glad that you and Steve continued to get along: all of you treated each other like family. He escorted you out of your apartment complex (and you rolled your eyes at Dorothy's call of, “Bring her back before midnight, Barnes!”), and you both made it to the cinema with plenty of time.

The picture itself, _Dodge_ _City,_ was fairly interesting: it was a western, which normally wouldn't have peeked your interest, but Bucky seemed so thrilled to see a movie with cowboys in it that you didn't want to say no. A man who came into a town burdened with robbers becomes the sheriff and eventually found love after making sure every crook got what was coming to him. You'd found the leading lady, Olivia de Havilland, to be quite entertaining as the plucky and determined newspaper columnist (you were especially glad to see a woman holding a columnist job), and Errol Flynn had done a wonderful job as the new sheriff.

For a majority of the film, you spent it snuggled up to Bucky in the back row, right under the projection booth, with his arm around yours and occasionally pecking your head whenever there were loud gunshots in the picture. All in all, it was rather nice, but there was one particular moment that was mildly unsettling. Errol Flynn's character had been flirting with Olivia de Havilland's character before tripping over several boxes and tumbling to the floor. Naturally, she – along with many people in the audience, including Bucky and yourself – had laughed. And he had threatened to spank her for laughing at him, even though it was obviously a natural response, and many men in the audience had laughed at _that._ Thankfully, Bucky hadn't, but he seemed to pick up on you stiffening beside him and gave you a kiss on the cheek.

As he escorted you back to your apartment (and after you'd gotten yourself a four-cent bag of salted peanuts from a street vendor when Bucky wasn't looking), you quietly listened to Bucky chatter about the film, and you were glad that he'd enjoyed himself. It wasn't until he finally asked, “Doll, you're awful quiet. Are you alright?” when you shrugged and said,

“Something Errol Flynn said just rubbed me the wrong way, Buck, but I'm fine. I'm glad you liked the picture.”

“What part rubbed you wrong, sugar?” One of Bucky's arms was wrapped around your waist, and if you weren't holding the bag of peanuts, you were fairly certain that one of your hands would have been linked together with Bucky's. You offered him the bag, and he took a few peanuts with his unoccupied hand.

“When he tripped in the news office, and Olivia de Havilland laughed,” you admitted softly.

“You were laughing at that part, doll. I thought you enjoyed seeing him fall over.”

“I did: it was funny, and if you tripped over a couple of boxes and weren't hurt, I'd probably laugh too,” you said, grinning a little at Bucky's snickering. “I, I didn't like when he threatened to spank her for laughing.”

Bucky nodded. “Sometimes guys get angry when they make themselves look stupid in front of a dame.”

“That doesn't excuse it,” you said softly.

You felt Bucky's hand rubbing the side of your hip. “I know, doll. Doesn't excuse it. No girl ought to be spanked for finding something funny.” His tone suddenly became more softer. “Was that why were were so concerned, baby: did you think I would do something like that to you?”

“Would you?” you asked, your voice quiet. Bucky leaned over and gave your forehead a kiss.

“Not for something petty like that.”

You hadn't even noticed that you'd reached your apartment building until Bucky opened the front door. You stood still in the threshold until he prompted your brain with a soft, “Doll?” He was looking at you with concern at your sudden stillness. “Are you alright?”

“I, I... Do you mind coming up with me? I think we need to keep talking,” you admitted. You meant nothing charming about it – you were more lost inside your own head than anything else, and Bucky seemed to recognize that. He nodded, and he escorted you to your apartment. When you both got inside, he asked,

“Do you want the door open or shut?”

“Closed, Buck,” you said, sitting down in one of the three chairs you had at your tiny table. He shut the door quietly and sat down beside you, and the moment he was no longer standing, words started tumbling out of your mouth. The story about Aunt Cassie and Uncle Charles. The man you saw on the way home from school. The picture, and everything you'd noticed to this point. The discussion with your mother. It all tumbled out of your mouth like running water – no, like throwing bricks at a forgotten chapel's windows. Fast and frenzied and guilty and surprisingly without tears.

And Bucky, God bless, kept silent through-out the entire ordeal, but he had taken both of your hands in his own when you mentioned your cousin being thrown against walls – and he would give your hands a gentle squeeze of reassurance when something particularly harsh came up. It was strange: the feeling of his callouses helped ground you physically, and his sympathetic expression focused your emotions.

“I,” you whimpered once you started running out of steam, “I, I'm not sure what to think, Bucky, I just.” You took a deep breath. Bucky rubbed his thumbs over the top of your hands until you collected your words again. “I don't know, I've never been with anyone before and, and I, I'm scared. I'm scared, Buck, I, I'm nervous and I'm scared, and, and, and I didn't realize it until tonight...”

Bucky was quiet for several moments. You could tell he was thinking, but he didn't seem to be grasping for words: he looked like he was mulling everything over. Eventually, he gave your hands another gentle squeeze and asked in a soft voice, “Sugar, are you worried that I'm going to hurt you? That I'm going to start pushing you around, or using you as a punching bag instead of the equipment down at the Y?”

It was interesting: most of the time, you totally forgot that Bucky was a champion boxer. You'd never seen him in the ring, and he didn't have a cruel bone in his body: you could tell by the way he treated others. His boxing had never even crossed your mind during your stream of worries, since you knew he did it as a hobby instead of a job.

You shook your head. “No, Bucky, not at all.”

Bucky gave you a small smile. “That makes me feel better, doll. I don't ever want you to worry about your safety when you're with me. A guy isn't worth anything if he gets his kicks from hurting his best girl. Or _anyone_ , but especially his best girl.”

“Then what did you mean earlier, about not spanking me for something petty?” you asked.

His lips twitched into a slightly wider smile. “If I fell over something and you started laughing, I'd probably laugh along with you, not take you over my knee. That's what I meant by it.”

You nodded slightly, then squeaked out, “Would you spank me for anything else?”

“You asking me to spank you, doll?” Bucky teased lightly, but you could tell that he knew what you'd meant. You still shook your head nonetheless, and his thumbs started rubbing over your hands again. As corny as it was, you enjoyed how physically affectionate Bucky was with you, although he toned it down quite a bit in front of Steve.

“No. I, I just want to know what to expect.”

Bucky nodded, then he admitted, “Yes, I probably will spank you at some point. Can I explain why, doll, before you ask any questions?”

It would have been a lie to say you weren't nervous at hearing that. You understood that, technically, a spanking wasn't abuse – as long as it didn't draw blood, or form massive bruises, or anything life-threatening occurred. It only caused a temporary soreness and a bit of humiliation, and – as a kid – it _had_ always made you stop and think about your actions before repeating offenses (which, to be honest, you had struggled with as a child).

After Dorothy had pulled you into a rather risque store on the far side of Staten Island one afternoon, you had also learned that some people found spanking to be rather sensual. The person in the store had tried explaining something about how the heat and reverberation of the smacks went straight to a woman's privates, and you'd gotten too flustered to listen to much beyond that. Whether from personal embarrassment or your own arousal, you weren't entirely sure, but you could understand why someone would enjoy it. Especially after seeing multitudes of couples around New York whose beaus hands would wander to squeeze their bottoms (“ _Joey_! Not here!”) or give them a swat or two when they thought someone wasn't looking (“Heeeey! What was _that_ for?” “Just 'cause, sweetheart.”).

But you could tell that, at this moment, Bucky wasn't talking about little slap and tickle games – or, if he did, he wasn't going to mention it during this serious of a conversation. You nodded, willing to listen, especially after how Bucky had kept an open ear during your rambling.

“I'm not going to abuse you, baby,” Bucky began, and you had a gut instinct that he was telling the truth. His earnest expression and heartfelt tone solidified that. “No matter what you see in the magazines or in any picture I might take you to, I'm not going to spank you for something trivial – like finding something funny, or telling me your opinion, or anything like that. It's not right, and I'm not going to treat you that way, _ever_. But what I _am_ going to do is watch over you.”

“Bucky, I don't need you to watch over me,” you interrupted softly, and he gave your hands a squeeze.

“I know that, doll. You can take care of yourself, and you're smart, and that makes me so proud of you, but I still like knowing that I can make sure you're alright. I like knowing that I can protect you from anything in the world when I'm around, even if it means protecting you from yourself.” He noticed when your eyebrows furrowed together in confusion and he sighed. “Let me think of how to say this... When you were in school, and you'd get paddled by one of your teachers, what was it normally for?”

“In the Ozarks or St. Gabriel?”

“Either one's fine, doll.”

“Mostly sassing teachers,” you admitted, “Or getting into fights.” You'd gotten into your fair share of playground fights in the Ozarks – usually with little boys who pulled your hair, or called you ugly, or said that God loved boys more than girls. At St. Gabriel's, your mouth and differing opinions with certain members of the staff had been an issue on more than once occasion.

“I don't mind you being cheeky, baby; you make me laugh,” Bucky said, smiling slightly, “As long as you and I aren't disrespectful towards each other, we won't have a problem. So no _serious_ name-calling, no bad attitude, nothing like that.” And you nodded in agreement: you and Bucky could cheek each other until the sun set, but neither of you had gone over the line. “I don't like the idea of you getting into fights, doll. You're endangering yourself, and that's part of what I'm supposed to be doing: keeping you from endangering yourself. You've seen the kind of damage that can happen whenever Steve picks fights: I don't want that happening to you.”

You understood Bucky's position perfectly, and he certainly had a point. You hadn't been a part of an actual brawl since seventh grade, but that didn't keep you from pouting and muttering, “Maybe you ought to spank Steve for endangering himself too.”

Bucky chuckled. “You say that like his mother and I haven't already been doing that for years.” He laughed a little more when your eyes became as wide as saucers, and he squeezed your hands. “Don't tell him I said that: he won't like it, and I'm sure he'll tell you in his own time eventually. But Steve's as good as my brother, and I look out for him like my own siblings.”

You managed a nod, then asked, “So I'm good as long as I don't pick fights?”

“As long as you don't endanger yourself,” Bucky reiterated. “No picking fights. Make sure you get your sleep and make sure you eat whenever you need to. I don't want you hurting your health: I like having you by my side, and I'd prefer if you're happy and healthy.”

Those sounded reasonable: stay healthy and don't fool around with your health. Still -

“What if I need to work through my lunch hour?” After all, at the shop, that happened on occasion. You would always make up for it by eating a large dinner, though. “Or during the night for a special order, or to help Maggie?” Thankfully, Maggie had started on some medication to help her sleep easier – some kind of brain thing, not a knock-out sleeping pill – and she would only come by once every two or three weeks to chat about stories at night instead of every few days.

“That's okay, on occasion,” Bucky nodded, “I just don't want you making a habit of skipping you meals or not sleeping through the night. That make sense?”

You nodded. “Is... is that all?”

“Almost,” Bucky said, giving your hands another squeeze. “We got past no disrespecting each other or endangering your health, right? Good. I don't want you lying to me, sweetheart. I don't _ever_ like being lied to, about anything, even little white lies. Hiding presents and special dates are fine, but anything serious, I'd like to know about. I want us to be able to communicate with each other, openly, like adults should, and lying to each other or _forgetting_ -” He removed one of his hands from yours to make air quotes, before returning it, “- to tell each other things breaks trust. I trust you, baby, and I want to always be able to trust you. And I promise not to lie to you about anything either.”

He suddenly brought both of your hands close to kiss them, then he moved them back down so he could look at you. “I'm only asking all of these things from you, doll, because I love you. I love you beyond words, and I want to keep you safe. Does that all sound reasonable?” Bucky asked calmly, and you mulled it over for a moment.

You knew in your heart that Bucky wouldn't say these things unless he meant them. You could see the reasoning behind it all. Having respect for each other. Staying healthy and safe. Keeping the trust. Reasonable, very adult requests, instead of childish demands for submission and quiet. And you knew Bucky: he would be treating you with the exact same respect.

“I can handle that,” you answered, giving him a small smile, and you could feel yourself relaxing a little. Your smile grew wider when Bucky leaned forward and kissed your forehead – and you giggled as he followed that up with a kiss to your nose.

“Is there anything you want to ask of me, doll?” Bucky asked. “I know it's a lot to take in, and I'm always willing to talk to you if you need it.”

You were quiet for a moment, your mind scrambling to try and think of any immediate questions, but you were drawing a blank, until -

“You wouldn't spank me in public, would you, Bucky?”

Bucky immediately shook his head. “No. If I ever have to put you over my knee, it'd be in private, and we'd talk through everything before it all started.”

You nodded, and he gave you another kiss on the forehead when someone knocked on your door.

“You can come in,” you called, and Dorothy practically rammed her way into your apartment. Her face fell slightly when she realized Bucky was nearby; or, rather, that Bucky was nearby, and you both were dressed. Dorothy was nosy, you knew that, and she could get just about any juicy story out of anyone. You _would_ be disgruntled about that, if she was the type of person to go spreading it around, but she kept her lips shut.

“Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you were still here,” she apologized in Bucky's direction, and he rose from his chair.

“It's probably time I head back home anyway. I'll see you tomorrow, doll, and we'll go check on Steve.” He leaned down to give you a peck on the cheek, and you practically forced the bag of remaining peanuts into his hands (“Steve ought to have some too.”) before he saw himself out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recognize that many people do consider spanking children to be a form of abuse, and I completely understand that. (If I had children myself, I wouldn't spank them either.) However, in the 1930's and 1940's, it was still an acceptable form of discipline towards children, so please take it with a grain of salt. Most of the discussion of spanking is mostly in terms of domestic discipline, which is between two consenting adults. There will be no form of spanking with children during this fic.
> 
> Also, please: if you, or something that you know, is in an abusive relationship, please please please seek help. I'm begging you.


	7. August 1939

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Lady Rutherford, who requested a scene that involved some strain being placed upon the relationship between Bucky and the Reader. And I thought, what could bring more strain than horrible attitudes and the first spanking in their relationship!

“James Buchanan, you get your butt _out_ of here _right_ _now!_ I haven't got a shirt on!”

In another sort of situation, that might actually be an invitation for Bucky to enter the apartment anyway. However, he could tell by the tone of your voice that you were dead serious, so he quickly exited the apartment – Dorothy's, not your own – and closed the door behind him.

You hadn't been expecting Bucky for another ten minutes or so. His early arrival was just _another_ thing that had gone wrong today.

Your mother had referred to it as the “Bad Day Blues” ever since you were a little girl. It wasn't a special word for depression. It was a code word for those days where nothing would go right, and the entire universe had it in for you. (Your father had called it “Bad Karma.”) These types of days would crop up at random without any sort of precursor: it would arrive regardless of the season, your cycle, the weather outside, or any other external or internal variable.

On these days, you struggled to keep your normally chipper disposition amidst the unpleasantness, and your attempts at cheekiness could quickly and easily come off as a bad attitude. As you got older, you would combat these days by staying as quiet as possible and avoiding as many people as you could, until you could go home and cry (and, as a child, talk to your stuffed animals about how awful everything had been). The strangely cathartic act of bawling your eyes out didn't always make the day become better, but it calmed you down enough that you could return to normal. Until that happened, the bad day could easily sour your mood, and – in turn – make the day even worse, which made your mood worse still, and so on and so forth. It was a perpetuating cycle.

Unfortunately, you hadn't really been given a chance to be alone, yet.

First, you had woken up to realized your alarm clock had broken. You weren't late, not quite, but you worked yourself into such a frenzy to get ready and get to work. You _just_ managed to reach the shop on time, after skipping breakfast, forgetting to run a brush through your scruffy hair, and running several blocks from your apartment. You were sweaty, out of breath, and you'd forgotten to grab your purse or your lunch from the fridge on the way out. As it turned out, you wouldn't have needed it anyway, since Miss Ruth asked you to work through your lunch hour to get a specialty order finished. Of course, you obeyed and worked amidst the grumbling of your stomach.

Customers were normally very kind, if not at least civil. Men who knew nothing about sewing or fabrics, but needed something fixed for themselves or their wives. Women who could – but couldn't alter clothing, or hem, or had no time in their own schedules to fix something. But today, for whatever reason, nearly everyone who came into the shop – everyone you came into contact with, rather – acted as if a twelve-foot pole was up their ass.

Something needed to be fixed immediately, now, today, no they didn't have tie to wait and come back another day. Did the store have a delivery fee? (Yes, five cents a package.) That's far too expensive! Everything was too expensive, or took too long to have fixed, or nothing was in the right color, or why didn't this store offer to dye fabrics – or this and that, or that and this. Miss Ruth, thankfully, stood by your side through the oceanic wave of insanity, or else you would have broken down into tears multiple times before closing.

And, to make matters worse, the large air conditioning unit Miss Ruth had installed broke at about 10am, which hadn't made either of you feel any better. The fabrics had practically soaked up the humidity and heat, and the shop had felt like a furnace. It was a relief when Miss Ruth locked the doors for the day.

You headed back to your apartment, shaking slightly from hunger and stress, and the stretch of sidewalk from the shop felt as hot as Hades. The humidity was almost a literal weight on your shoulders, and you were quick to change out of your dress and slip once you arrived home. When you checked your calendar after putting on a different slip and skirt, however, you swore loud enough to scare the birds away from your window, grabbed a nice blouse from your closet, and rushed over to Dorothy's apartment without any sense of modesty. On your calendar in large letters, you had written, _Date with Bucky, 7pm._

And, with the shop closing at 6 and a fifteen minute walk home, you were short on time.

“Dorothy, I need help. Bucky and I have a date tonight, and I forgot 'til just now,” you said, trying not to feel humiliated at your friend snickering at the sight of you without a shirt on in the doorway of her apartment.

“Come on in,” she said, letting you get past, “Lemme grab my comb and I'll fix you hair, just put your shirt on first.”

You hadn't put your shirt on, of course. You'd gone into her kitchen, popped three grapes into your mouth (you knew Dorothy wouldn't mind), and opened her freezer to let the cool air brush against your hot chest. You needed _desperately_ to cool down, and thankfully, Dorothy seemed to recognize that when she came back. She only started giggling a little as she maneuvered your hair into a firm braided bun, all while letting you stand in front of her freezer.

And because Jesus was not being nice to you today, neither of you had closed the door to Dorothy's apartment. And Bucky was early. Of course.

At seven on the dot, with your hair fixed and your blouse attached to your torso, you exited Dorothy's apartment to see Bucky leaning against a wall, staring at the ceiling with his arms across his chest. He didn't look mad, but he did look sort of tired.

“Sorry for snapping,” you said sincerely. “I wasn't expecting you yet.”

He gave you a small smile, before he walked over and gave you a peck on the lips. “It's not a problem, doll. Are you alright?” His eyes were full of concern, and you felt a little guilty about how quick you'd been to yell earlier, even if only for modesty's sake.

Instead of telling the truth – which was, _“No, Buck, I've had an awful, awful day and as much as I love spending time with you, I would prefer to go into my apartment and cry and forget this entire day happened rather than go dancing right now.”_ – you lied and nodded.

“Yeah, Bucky, I'm fine,” you said, and you smiled, even though it felt extremely forced, almost like a school yearbook picture. You could tell by his expression that he knew your smile was fake, but he didn't comment on it. He looped an arm around your waist and escorted you out of the apartment complex.

**~ * ~**

The date was a disaster. In hindsight, you were certain that Bucky was some sort of saint, given how patient and understanding he'd been the whole night. None of the problems had been caused by the diner employees or by Bucky himself. No, all of it was your fault, as much as it pained you to admit that.

The entire eleven-block walk to the diner from your apartment had been awkward. All of Bucky's questions about your day you would have happily chattered on without my prompting, under normal circumstances. Tonight, however, he received minimal, short answers - or not-so-subtle re-directions to get Bucky to talk about his own day instead. He caught onto your altered attitude quickly, and he became silent by the fifth block. The quiet was tense, until your stomach started growling loudly.

Bucky chuckled when you wrapped your arms firmly around your tummy. “Well, it's good we're almost there, doll,” he teased, giving you cheek a small kiss. “Didn't you get enough for lunch?”

“Yeah,” you lied again, almost automatically, then you added, “I took some of the egg salad that Dorothy made yesterday.” Your stomach let out another loud grumble, which did not help your case, and Bucky shook his head in amusement.

“I'm real hungry though,” you admitted in a small voice.

“I can tell,” he said, then added, “Why don't we just spend the night in the diner instead of going dancing after. I didn't think it'd be this humid today when we made plans last week.” That was the truth: there had been an unexpected fifteen degree spike over the last ten days or so.

“I love you,” you said in a grateful tone, and he smiled back.

“I love you too, doll.”

When you both had gotten into the diner, you were practically salivating at the scent of greasy burgers and fries and whatever else they were cooking in the kitchen. It was more crowded than usual – you assumed it was due to the _Now_ _Air_ _Conditioned_ sign plastered in the window – but Bucky had found a small table for two. When you peeked at the menu, you were absolutely certain that you could eat nearly everything on it, but instead you settled on the classic – an obscenely large burger and fries, and a soda – and Bucky did the same, with a milkshake.

Due to the large amount of people (and the small staff who clearly hadn't expected so many people), it had taken a while for someone to take your order. Bucky had been calm and relaxed, holding one of your hands in his own and rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. You, on the other hand, felt surprisingly anxious: your stomach was still growling, now much louder than before due to being in such close proximity to food, and you were shaking one of your legs under the table to try and keep calm. (It wasn't working very well.)

You weren't entirely sure when Bucky picked up on it – whether before or after ordering your drinks or food, or sometime in-between – but after the waitress took your menus and headed into the kitchen, he gave your hand a small squeeze. “Babydoll, are you alright?” he asked again, and you nodded.

“Yeah, Buck, I'm fine.”

“You're not lying to me, are you?” His eyes were not moving from your own, and you felt a small pang of guilt at his gentle probing, but you shook your head.

“No.”

If his expression said anything, he didn't believe that. “Doll, we talked about this: we're not going to lie to each other about anything.”

“I'm not lying, Buck,” you said, your tone harsher than you intended.

Bucky's brows furrowed together. “Where's this attitude coming from?”

“I don't have an attitude.”

“I'm pretty sure I can point out a bad attitude when I hear it.”

At that moment, the waitress arrived with your Coke and Bucky's milkshake, and you gave you both a smile. “Everything going alright for you both?”

“Yes, it is, thank you,” you'd replied, in a harsh clipped tone that surprised all of you, including yourself, and the waitress quickly scurried away. You felt a rush of shame flood over you, and you immediately pulled your hand away from Bucky's in order to hide your face with _both_ of your hands. Your tone had been rude, and you knew it, and normally you would never treat another person this way. It was shameful, and you _knew_ that, and you could feel tears pricking at the back of your eyes. Truth be told, you wanted to sink into the floor.

Bucky was quiet for a long time, and you were surprised that he didn't get up out of his seat and leave you there to wallow in your own poor behavior. You sat still, trying to keep your breathing steady and ignoring the growing peach pit of guilt and shame growing in your stomach.

“I've been with you for almost four months, and you've _never_ acted like this,” he eventually said, his voice soft but stern. “That was rude, and I _know_ for a fact that my best girl isn't mean or rude like you've been behaving today.”

His words, although they were true, felt like a fist painfully squeezing your heart. You sniffed, knowing your eyes were watering but praying that you wouldn't burst into tears in public. You moved your hands – you could see the table, and Bucky wouldn't be able to see your eyes – and you opened your mouth to apologize, but he stopped you,

“No, don't try to apologize right now. I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to shake your head yes or no. Alright?” Bucky's tone wasn't curt or condescending, just firm. You nodded. Bucky sighed, and you heard him take a sip of his milkshake before the glass came back into your line of sight.

“Okay,” he eventually started. “You've lied to me today, haven't you?”

You nodded.

“More than once?”

You nodded again with a small sniff.

Bucky sighed. “And I'm guessing, by your attitude, that you're _not_ alright, are you.”

You shook your head.

“Do you feel sick? A bug, stomach-ache, anything like that.”

You shook your head again.

Bucky was quiet for a few seconds, before he asked, “Did you get a chance to eat today, during your lunch hour?”

You shook your head.

“So you lied about that. Were you planning on skipping out on a meal?”

You shook your head, then you added in a small voice, “I'd packed lunch, Buck, but I forgot to grab it this morning, and Miss Ruth had me work through lunch anyway.”

“It must have been busy at the shop today.”

You nodded.

“I'm guessing you didn't have a very good day then. Was that what you lied about? And the eating.”

You nodded, and you wiped a little at your eyes before lowering your hands onto the table. Bucky took them into his own almost immediately. It was a familiar habit of his, whenever you both were speaking seriously to each other, and that was comforting.

“You _know_ you can talk to me about anything, doll,” Bucky said earnestly, his voice still soft and stern. “Anything at all. I don't want you to think that you have to hide things from me, or hide your feelings from me. And I'm not going to judge you for having a bad day. We all have 'em. But you and I talked about respecting each other, and lying to me and acting mean, to me and to anyone else, isn't respectful. You wouldn't want me to snap my cap at you if I had a bad day, would you?” You shook your head. “And I know you wouldn't want me to lie to you about anything.” You shook your head a second time.

It was at that moment when the waitress quietly returned, and both of you let go of the other's hands so she could set down your plates. Through-out your conversation, Bucky had kept his voice low, so nobody around you could hear what he was saying, which you were grateful for; even when you had messed up, he wanted to preserve your sense of dignity.

Your stomach, thankfully, remained silent at the mouth-watering sight of your burger and fries, and as the waitress was about to walk away without a word, you said to her, “I want to apologize, about earlier. It was rude, and I hadn't intended for it to come out that way, but, but it was, and I wanted to say that I'm sorry.”

The waitress – Molly, according to the name tag – looked rather surprised, then she gave you a little smile. “Thank you. Most people don't apologize for acting rude, I appreciate that. Lemme know if either of you need anything.” And she scampered off to another table.

When your eyes wandered back to Bucky, he was smiling at you.

“What?” you asked.

“ _That_ was my best girl, being nice,” he explained, “Not the way you were acting before. But we can talk about all that after we finish. Eat up, doll.”

You hadn't needed to be told twice. The food had been delicious – warm and greasy and everything your stomach had been screaming for all afternoon – and you were giggling a little when you realized you had finished before Bucky had gotten through half of his plate. Unintentionally, of course. People were meant to have three meals a day, after all, not just one. Thankfully, Bucky just winked at you and let you steal a couple fries from his own plate. He paid for everything, and you made sure to leave a nice tip for the waitress as a second apology (on top of what Bucky put down as well), and he cuddled you into his side as you both walked outside. It had dropped several degrees, which was nice, and – in the spur of the moment – Bucky asked if you wouldn't mind walking around Central Park for a while, and you agreed.

Once the two of you were in the park, a surprisingly nice breeze had picked up, and the lack of sun certainly helped cool you down, even though there was still some humidity. There weren't too many people around, but you knew you'd be safe beside Bucky, especially with one of his arms still wrapped around your hip.

“Let's see if we can try this again, sugar,” he said, giving the top of your head a small kiss. “How'd your day go?”

“Awful,” you answered, this time with complete honesty, and when Bucky's arm started rubbing your hip softly, you found yourself continuing like normal. Words spilled out without thought, and it wasn't long before you'd practically gone through the entire day. Waking up late, running to work, forgetting your lunch. The air conditioning unit breaking, customers acting rudely, the sheer heat, your aching stomach. Coming home and flustering about forgetting your date.

“I'm sorry 'bout that part,” you replied, and he chuckled.

“It happens to the best of us, doll.”

“And then _youuu_ showed up early,” you teased, poking him in the side.

“Can you blame me?” he laughed, “I like spending time with my best girl, even after she has a bad day.”

Both of you continued to walk around the park, tossing questions back and forth for nearly twenty minutes – Bucky had had a relatively normal day at work, loading boxes on and off ships at the dock – until he eventually sighed as you two neared a bench. “Alright, we know we're gonna need to talk about earlier.”

You nodded, then you said, “I really didn't mean to snap my cap at you, Buck, or to Molly back at the diner.”

“I know, doll. I could see it on your face as soon as the words came out of your mouth.” Carefully, Bucky gestured for you to sit on the bench, and you did, before he took the seat beside you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you cuddled close to him. “But that doesn't excuse actually saying them. Having a bad day doesn't give you liberty to act mean, or have an attitude, or _lie_ to me about _anything_ , and it works the same way on my behalf. You know that.”

You nodded, your head perched against Bucky's shoulder, and he kissed your forehead. “I'm sorry, Buck.”

“I know. I don't want this to become a habit, though: you, shutting me out whenever you have a bad day.”

“I don't want it to either,” you said, softly. “I _hate_ having bad days. Nothing goes right, and this great cloud of unpleasantness takes over and it doesn't move until I'm by myself, and I can have a good long cry, and then it goes away. And I hate that.” The words had spilled out of your mouth without thought, and before Bucky could respond, you tacked on, “You're going to spank me, aren't you.”

After all, you had a vague feeling that this would occur, after snapping at Molly in the diner, but as you and Bucky talked about it more and more, you were now fairly certain about it. Part of you was a little mad, but that wasn't aimed at Bucky: it was aimed at yourself, for landing into this situation with your words. Another part of you was, bizarrely enough, relieved: it meant that Bucky was willing to stay with you, after today and presumably through more bad days, and he still wanted to keep your safe if he was willing to spank you.

“Yes, I am,” Bucky said, “And it's all because I love you. So, so much.”

**~ * ~**

You both agreed on going back to Bucky's apartment instead of your own. It wasn't the first time you'd been over there – Steve had brought you over several times – and you knew Bucky wasn't going to attempt anything illicit. The main reason you'd decided to go to his apartment instead of your own was, interestingly enough, your neighbors. While the girls would be willing to help you no matter what and could potentially barge in if they heard the sound of swats, Bucky's neighbors probably wouldn't do anything. It helped that he lived on a higher floor, where less folks lived.

Bucky opened the front door for you, and you shuffled in as he locked it behind you both. Unlike Steve, his apartment – like yours – had a front door that was in the middle of a hallway. It was more private that way, and less hot.

“I'd feel better if you took your shoes off, sugar,” Bucky murmured, taking off his own. “I don't want to worry about your heels if you kick your legs.”

The floor was very clean, and there was a wide, ugly carpet, so you didn't worry about ruining your stockings. Still... “Do you think I'll need to kick my legs?” you asked, taking off your kitten-heeled brogues anyway.

“Everyone reacts differently to getting spanked,” Bucky said calmly, before he took your hands and guided you toward the well-loved, second-hand couch. According to Steve, it had previously been in Bucky's grandmother's home, before she passed away in 1937. He sat, and he had you stand by his side, and you realized with a slightly uneasy feeling that this would be the first time you would be spanked over someone's lap, not over a desk.

“Is there anything you want to ask me, or talk about, before this starts?”

Without thought, you blurted out, “You aren't using a paddle on me, are you?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I'm not going to use a paddle – or anything else. If something extremely serious happens in the future, we'll discuss it, but right now, no... Are you nervous?”

You nodded, then admitted softly, “You... you're the first person to spank me. I, I mean, outside of school.” You had told him this before, of course, but it hadn't really sunk in until this moment.

Bucky seemed to recognize that as well, given your body language and your demeanor. “Would you feel better if I told you how this is going to go?” His voice was full of sympathy, and he gave your hands a squeeze when you nodded. “Well, I'm going to turn you over my lap, sweetheart, and I'm going to lift up your skirt. Then I'm going to use my hand and swat that soft little bottom of yours 'til it's all hot and sore – and when we're done, you can sit in my lap and cry all you need to, and I'll hold you the whole time, for as long as you want.”

You were definitely blushing by the end of Bucky's explanation, although it did settle some of your nervousness: you knew what to expect, and – unlike at school, where you'd been told to stop crying and head back to class – Bucky wouldn't leave you to your own devices once the spanking was over. That was a comforting thought in itself – knowing you wouldn't be lonely afterwards – but there was something that still concerned you.

“Do you have to lift up my skirt, Buck?” you asked in a soft voice.

“I won't do anything without your permission,” Bucky said, giving your hands another tender squeeze. “I'm not trying to be a deviant, doll. And I know you won't like hearing this, but it's easier to see and make sure that I don't hurt you when your skirt's out of the way. Didn't that ever happen at your schools?”

“Not with me,” you admitted. Other girls, on occasion, had to been spanked with their skirts lifted, but they'd always been allowed to keep their slips down, for modesty's sake. (Even though female faculty members had been the only ones allowed to punish female students.) You explained that, feeling the blush creeping further down your neck, and Bucky nodded.

“I was planning on letting you keep your slip in place, doll, if that makes you feel better. But I won't lift your skirt if it makes you too uncomfortable... Would that be alright?”

You had a feeling in your stomach that, if you told him no, then Bucky would have dropped the issue. But he had been perfectly honest and reasonable with his explanation: he didn't want to hurt you, and he needed to see past your dark-colored skirt in order to do that.

You gave a little nod and sniffed, “I'm really sorry, Bucky. For, for everything.”

“I know, sugar.” He gave you a small, comforting smile, before he carefully urged you over his knee, with your bottom perched over one leg and your torso lying mostly flat against the other couch cushion. “If it makes you feel any better, by the end of this, today'll be behind us, and you can have your 'good long cry' that you've been waiting on. It'll be like killing two birds with one stone.”

You pouted at Bucky's soft voice and his attempt to make a joke, but part of you was also relieved that he wasn't angry or showing you pity. He was just being your Bucky, who could make silly jokes at any time – even, it seemed, right before he was about to spank you. That didn't stop you from closing your eyes and reaching for the only pillow on the couch when you could felt your skirt being lifted, but Bucky hadn't lied: he left your slip in place.

“You sure you're alright, doll?” Bucky asked softly, wrapping one arm around your waist.

You nodded, then murmured, “'M just embarrassed...”

“You don't need to worry about that,” he soothed, his other hand resting on your bottom. “I love you, hon, and nothing's going to change that... Are you ready?”

To your surprise, the sense of modesty you'd been so concerned about seconds before was gone: you were now worried about painful this experience would be. Still, you nodded, and you held onto the pillow when you felt Bucky's hand move away from your bottom. Even though you knew it was coming, that didn't stop you from yelping when his hand came back down again, with a loud clap and a stinginess left in its wake.

Bucky kept a steady pace from the beginning, and it wasn't very long before he'd gone over every inch of skin twice, three, four times, and kept going. It felt incredibly different from what you recalled from the Ozarks and at St. Gabriel's. Those hard wood paddles had left behind an instant burn with every single swat, even through your skirts, and it usually hadn't taken the maximum of 10 swats to get you to succumb to tears. With Bucky, his hand didn't cause the same immediate burn – thank the Lord – but there was a brief stinginess that would blossom, which quickly turned into a steadier, lingering soreness that wouldn't fade away. The sound was also very different. Those paddles had erupted with a loud clap that had been actually scary to hear, even when you knew it was coming. The sound of Bucky's hand against your rear was a softer pop, which you guessed was muffled slightly by your shift and your panties, and it was less nerve-wracking to hear than the paddle.

You weren't exactly sure what number circuit Bucky was on across your bottom – you had stopped counting around eight or so – but the spanks stopped when you could feel tears pricking at your eyes and you were sniffling. Part of you thought it might be over, but Bucky's voice – gentle, yet firm – proved you wrong:

“You feeling sore?” When you nodded, too afraid that you'd start crying if you verbally answered, he continued, “I can see. You're turning a bit pink over here, sweetheart. You want to remind me why you're over my lap?”

No, truthfully, you didn't, since you both had already discussed it, but you had a hunch that sassing him – while in _this_ position – wasn't a good idea. You had to take in a few breaths before you managed, “For my, my attitude.”

“Good. Well, your attitude wasn't very good, hon, but I'm glad you remembered. I know I'm beating the horse by now for saying this, but you and I said we would respect each other by not being mean.” You nodded at his words, because, obviously, he wasn't wrong. “What's the second thing you're getting a spanking for?”

“For lying,” you admitted, now sniffling. You were certain that, by now, you were crying. Partially because your bottom was sore, but mostly from the emotional baggage of knowing that you had _lied_ to _Bucky_ , of all people: Bucky, who loved you dearly.

“Uh-huh. I don't need to remind you that lying is _never_ okay, not in my book. You know that. And I don't want it to happen again, or the meanness. You understand?” You nodded again, much faster than before, and one of his hands – you weren't sure which – came forward and stroked your hair a little.

“Alright. There's a third reason why you're here, but we didn't really go over it too much before, so I'll remind you now: I love you. I love you so, so much, doll, and I want you to be the best person you can be. And if that means doing something that breaks my heart to do, then I will do it. Because I love you.”

You collapsed into tears at that proclamation, and you wanted to apologize, but you were too choked up. Bucky removed his hand from your hair to continue the spanking, reigniting the soreness and allowing it to spread deeper into your skin. You got through another two circuits before you gave up once again, and tried to focus on your breathing and trying to keep it steady with your tears.

You didn't realized when Bucky stopped, to be honest. You were too preoccupied by your own tears, and your inner monologue of promises to never repeat a bad day like this. Your bottom was hurting: the earlier soreness had eventually morphed into a soreness which _also_ burned, and you knew it would linger for a day or two. It wasn't until he moved your skirt back into place and started rubbing your bottom through the fabric when you realized it was all over.

You stayed there, slowly regaining control over your breathing and tears while remaining over Bucky's lap, before he carefully pulled you up onto your feet – then back onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a warm cuddle, and you collapsed back into a stream of tears. The stress and pressure of everything had hit you at once: this entire day, the spanking itself, Bucky's sheer patience and willingness to help you... You didn't process it all. The soreness in your rear seemed to steady your mind to the present; it urged you to keep your thoughts off of the awful day you'd experienced and to focus on breathing. Despite how much you hated crying, it was therapeutic for your emotions, especially with your fella's arms still around you.

“It's alright, sweetheart, it's alright... Shhh, just let it all out, don't worry... It's okay, it's all okay, I love you so, so much... We're both okay, it's alright...” He cooed softly in your ear. When you snuggled your face against the crest between his shoulder and chest, he rested his cheek against your head and stroked your hair. “I've got you, baby, I've got you. It's all behind us now, you're okay... we're both okay... There you go, just let it all out...”

You weren't sure how long you sat on Bucky's lap, crying your eyes out against his shoulder and chest, feeling how much wetness his shirt was soaking up. Not once did he complain. He rubbed your back, cuddled you close, and continued to coo soft reassurances into your ear. With each passing minute, the pressure and stress – and the guilt from these things being caused by your own actions – slowly melted off of your shoulders. When your tears finally stopped and your breathing returned to normal, you felt more emotionally stable than you'd felt all day – or all week. And sleepy. So, so sleepy...

 

 


	8. November & December 1939

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little mini-chapter is for thefifthraven23, who wanted the story of Bucky winning the chair, and for Orange, who wanted something fluffy and cute. I hope you guys enjoy it!

 

**November 1939:**

Thanksgiving was two weeks away, but Bucky Barnes was already grateful for everything he had. When he'd visited his mother a few days before, she'd demanded that he bring Steve and his best girl to the Barnes family Thanksgiving meal (which, between at least eight people, was bound to be a feast).

“Ma, I know Steve will want to come,” he'd said, leaning against the counter while Winifred Barnes cooked. “But I don't know about -”

“James Buchanan, unless she is spending Thanksgiving with her own family, you _will_ bring her here, or I will wear out _another_ one of my spoons on your behind 'til it breaks.”

Bucky had wanted to ask what would break – the spoon, or his behind – but he thought better of it. Knowing his mother, the answer was probably both. “Yes, Ma. I'll tell her when I see her again.”

His boss down at the docks had promised to give him a five-cent raise for all of his hard work (and since a few other men had been crushed by a metal shipping boat). It was a morbid realization, but it would help in the long-run. His siblings were all excelling in school, especially Rebecca. Steve had dropped out of his art classes sometime in early August to be able to sell newspaper, which he was rather good at; Bucky knew his best friend felt demeaned by the job, despite the pay, but it was better than nothing. And his little sweetheart – who'd been in his life for about seven months now, and officially his for around six – worked hard nearly every day in a seamstress shop near her apartment.

Some days, Bucky's heart felt so full that he worried it might bust. He and Steve had been best pals since they were small, and they'd forged an unbreakable bond somewhere along the way. Everyone in the Barnes family had accepted Steve as kin – to the point where Rebecca turned six before she realized that Steve wasn't biologically related. It was a heart-warming thought to know that the two of them would be by each other's sides until the end of the line.

And Bucky knew that he owed Steve a lot: if it wasn't for the skinny little punk, he probably never would have met his best girl.

Initially, after learning that Steve visited the seamstress shop several times after getting Sarah Rogers' dress altered, he'd encouraged Steve to go steady with the mystery dame. If it'd been anybody else, telling stories about the dame who was a happy working girl and wanted to be a writer and never once made fun of Steve's size but sassed him in other ways, Bucky wouldn't have believed it. Coming from Steve, however, he'd taken it as truth.

Each time, Steve only shook his head. “I just got a gut feeling, Buck,” Steve eventually explained, after a lot of weaseling on Bucky's part. “She's a good friend, but... but she's meant for someone else.”

**~ * ~**

Bucky just returned to the apartment from the docks, sweaty and aching all over. The clouds overhead had been brewing all afternoon, and he was glad he made it into the building before anything happened. He stripped out of his work shirt, leaving on his socks and undershirt and old slacks to protect him from the cold, and he'd started making himself a sandwich for dinner when he heard the sound of drizzling rain. Rain which quickly turned into thunder, then into pouring buckets. He finished eating and considered turning into bed early when there was a knock at his door.

He was certain it wasn't a robber: the neighborhood was a decent one, and nobody was dumb enough to go up over ten floors for a robbery. (They would've stuck to the first or second floor for that.) He was going through a list of people who might be visiting him – one of his siblings, a neighbor, maybe even Steve, if he was stationed close by – when he opened the door... and almost burst out laughing. He then felt immediately guilty for nearly doing that, at the sight before him.

His little sweetheart – who lived about a twenty-minute walk away – stood in the threshold, shaking like a leaf. Her clothes were practically glued onto her skin from the rain, and she was clutching her shoes in one hand, probably to avoid soaking through the sole. Her hair was sticking to her face and shoulders, and if he'd ever seen her wear make-up, it probably would be running. Instead, her eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks flushed, and her expression gloomy.

Part of him wanted to cuddle her in his arms – or grab her a towel. But the other part of him couldn't help but tease her a little first. (He'd spent too much time around Steve, after all.) “Doll? You wanna come in?”

Without any more prompting, she scampered in, allowed her shoes to drop onto the floor of Bucky's apartment, shut the door behind her, and latched onto him. Even though she was creating a puddle where she stood, he wrapped his arms around her anyway, and he distinctly heard the sound of her bursting into tears with her face pressed against his chest.

“Hey, hey, there's no reason to cry now, hon,” Bucky tried soothing, rocking his body a little. He could feel her hands gripping onto his undershirt. “It's all fine. Come on, lemme get you a towel and something dry to put on, and we can talk about whatever is making you sad, alright?”

Thankfully, she nodded against his chest, and he could see her trying to calm down her tears. He gave her a kiss on the forehead and murmured, “I'll be right back,” before scuttling towards his bedroom where the linen closet and his dresser were.

After about ten minutes, she was finally out of her wet clothes (which were now drying over the heating grate, along with her shoes) and snuggled up in the bathrobe Mrs. Rogers had given him as a present after he graduated high school. He rarely wore it, only when it was extremely cold, and it was soft and warm; it also covered his doll's entire body and protected her modesty. (He found it adorable that she had to roll up the sleeves a little to use her own hands.) She hadn't been remotely skeptical about stripping down to the nude – which Bucky attested to a desire to get warm _immediately_. After fetching a towel and the bathrobe, he'd huddled himself into his bedroom and waited until she knocked on the door and helped him back in.

“Alright, doll,” Bucky said, sitting down beside her on the couch. She was using the towel to dry off as much of her hair as possible. “You know you can't go picking fights with a rain cloud.”

She gave him a tiny smile, before she sighed, “I had an awful day, Buck.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She nodded, and when she set the towel down, Bucky wrapped an arm around her shoulders and listened as she rattled off about her day: she hadn't gotten much sleep, due to several of her neighbors having overnight guests. (“I didn't realize Amelia had a fella! Or a metal headboard.”) Miss Ruth had been ill, so she had worked in the shop by herself. (“We didn't have very many people, Buck, but it was just so depressing and lonely, y'know?”)

Around lunch, a group of kids, about ten or eleven years old each, had thrown a brick through the front window; she'd called the police, who had made a report. One of them seemed to recognize her description of the boys (“It was his _son_ , Buck!”), then started yelling at her about how she ought to be a more responsible shop owner if she couldn't defend herself against a group of prepubescent boys – even though they'd already recorded that she only worked there and didn't own the place. (“I wanted to punch him, Buck, but he's a _cop_.”) She spent the remainder of the afternoon sweeping up glass and moving fabrics and orders into the backroom, where they could be locked and kept safe from theft overnight; she had called Miss Ruth's apartment complex via a payphone and left a message with her landlord, who promised to get it to her.

Then, on top of everything, she had been planning on surprising him with a visit. She and Dorothy had made cookies the night before, and she was planning on giving them to him. (“The police officers saw 'em,” she mumbled, a firm pout on her face, “and they ate 'em all before I could ask 'em not to.”) On the walk to his apartment, it had started to rain. (“I hadn't even thought about bringing an umbrella...”) And rain. She'd ran the last two blocks, in the vicious downpour, after taking off her shoes.

By the end of it, Bucky had eased his doll into his lap for a proper cuddle, which she had accepted quite happily. Her head rested against his chest, and he stroked her hair, which was still a little damp. She was sniffling a little, and he was hoping she didn't break down into tears: seeing his little sweetheart cry was never an enjoyable experience.

“Sugar?”

“Mmm?”

“I'm proud of you.” When she gave him a confused look, he gave her a small kiss. “You didn't let your bad day ruin your mood, and you didn't hide away from me. I'm real proud of that.”

Instead of replying, his doll only wrapped her arms tighter around him and snuggled as close as she could.

 

 

 

**December 1939:**

“Buck, I don't need another scarf.”

“I don't want you catching pneumonia with that cough you still got, Steve —”

Steve rolled his eyes, and you giggled at your fella's obvious mother-henning. “I'm fine.”

“— you know everyone is getting sick right now —”

“ _Bucky_.”

“At least put on some gloves.”

Steve blushed, looking quite disgruntled, and you felt a little bad on his behalf. Bucky didn't know this, but Steve had given his only pair of gloves — which hadn't even been leathery gloves like one pair of your own, or all of Bucky's; they were _mittens_ — to a young kid you both had bumped into the previous week. The kid had been no older than nine or so, with fingers that were practically purple from the cold.

“Bucky, he'll be fine,” you soothed, prodding Bucky's side with a few fingers. “He's got pockets, and Steve's made of strong stuff.”

To further prove your point, you shuffled away from Bucky's side and cuddled next to Steve, who was a little shorter than you and wearing probably more layers as well, even though you both had on heavy jackets and a scarf. Your own mittens – very soft ones with fingers that Miss Ruth had given you as a present last year – were already on your hands.

Bucky's eyes moved between the two of you, before he eventually sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Stevie, lead the way.”

After all, Steve had shown you and Bucky the flier a few days prior: there was a Macy's a few blocks away from the Rogers apartment, and they were having a raffle for all sort of products in their store (at five cents per ticket), along with free food and in-store sales for the holiday. You had also guessed that many street vendors would plant themselves outside of Macy's to earn some business: New York was New York for a reason.

As you headed for the door, with Steve already half-way down the staircase outside, Bucky gave your bottom a swift pop, before he wrapped his arm around your waist. “You're a brat,” he teased softly, his voice low enough that Steve couldn't catch it.

“But you love me,” you teased back.

“You're right, I do,” he chuckled and pecked your lips, before he urged you forward to catch up with Steve.

**~ * ~**

“Aww, Stevie, it's alright!” you said, letting go of Bucky's hand to cuddle up against your skinny friend, as the three of you headed back to Steve's apartment. The pout on Steve's face hadn't moved an inch since the three of you left Macy's, and it made you feel a little guilty.

The three-story building had been pretty packed, especially since the Depression had started to fade away (ever so slowly) and people were able to spare a nickel for a special event. Bucky had paid for Steve's ticket (“Bucky -” “Maybe you'll win yourself some mittens!”), but you'd managed to pay for your own while they were arguing. Steve had found Bucky's mildly-wounded ego vaguely amusing, if his expression gave it away, and each of you spent a good portion of the evening just walking around and browsing. (The Macy's was much warmer than outside, and that in itself was worth it.) The person who sold you the ticket had explained that any winners needed to be present in order to claim any prizes, so when everyone began to flock back down to the bottom floor, the three of you followed along.

There was a very long table of slips of papers, along with a massive amount of products on the stage (clothing, small and large appliances) and a few sales representatives. One of them came up to the microphone and explained that every product on the stage was up for raffle, but anybody who won would receive a voucher for the product – which they could pick up, with the voucher, once the New Year began. Then, the raffle began.

To your surprise, many of the raffle ticket numbers they called out belonged to people who had already left. The man behind the microphone ended up calling about seven different numbers before the first prize was handed out (a voucher for a pop-up toaster). Several toasters. Several dresses. Several suits. Pants. Coats. Gloves. (Steve laughed when they moved on, and Bucky muttered, “Alright, Stevie, maybe next year.”) Handbags and accessories.

You barely recognized when your own ticket was called – Steve poked your hip and Bucky squeezed your hand tightly – and you received a voucher for a brand new pair of shoes. Several pairs of shoes were given out. Furniture: a couch. Two vacuums. One electric dishwasher (the woman who won it broke down into tears). And, finally, a brand-new plush lounge chair...

… which was when they called out Bucky's number.

“Move, move, move, move!” you said, practically pushing him towards the stage at his surprised expression. After he came back, with the voucher firmly stuck in his pocket, you all scrambled to leave. Vendors had been shouting at strangers for last minute sales. It wasn't until you were all out in the cold when you noticed Steve's saddened demeanor.

“Steve, if it makes you feel better,” you said, taking one of his hands into your own, “your Christmas present is a thousand times better than Bucky's.”

“Doll,” Bucky said, his voice a playful whine. “I thought I was your favorite.”

“Nooo,” you teased back, using your other hand to poke his side. “Steve's my favorite. I've known him the longest!” Which was true: with Christmas only five days away, you'd officially known your skinny best friend for a year – and Bucky for eight months.

Instead of responding, Bucky managed to catch you by surprise: he picked you up and tossed you over his shoulder, with you shrieking with surprise.

“Bucky Barnes! Put me down!”

“Nope,” Bucky laughed. “You brought this onto yourself.”

Thankfully, Steve was grinning a little and trying to hide the fact that he was laughing, which was what both of you were aiming for. He finally put you down once you arrived at Steve's apartment, and you scrambled to grab the presents you'd stowed in the coat closet. Mrs. Rogers was working over time, which wasn't unusual, so you placed her present (a pretty, hand-knitted scarf) onto the kitchen table, before taking both of your boys' presents and shuffling to where they sat on the couch.

Steve seemed to perk up slightly when he noticed that his present was larger – and heavier – than Bucky's. (Little did either of the know that Bucky's other present from you was under the tree at Mrs. Barnes' house; Bucky had mentioned visiting them for Christmas dinner, and you had schemed with his mother for the perfect hiding spot.) And you watched quietly as both of your boys tore into their packages, and Steve managed to get through his newspaper wrapping first.

It was a handmade quilt, one you had slaved over since September. It was created entirely from stuffing that Amelia had borrowed from her father's upholstery business, and colorful pieces of scrap fabric from the shop and from the large box in your apartment. You'd spent every spare moment since Labor Day working on it, and you'd enlisted the assistance from the women in your building – usually by requesting to hide it whenever Steve or Bucky came over, or asking Laura at the end of the hall to use her surging machine. Each individual square had a different pattern, with differing colors, and you'd made the quilt large enough that at least four people of Steve's size could fit under it comfortably.

For several seconds, Steve was silent. Then, when Bucky wrapped an arm around Steve's shoulder, you realized how close your friend was to tears.

“Steve...?” you prompted softly. “Are you alright?”

“I, I... I don't know what to say,” he sniffed. “Th-Thank you...”

You immediately moved from your spot on the floor and cuddled yourself against Steve on the couch, even though there wasn't much room, and you could feel him returning the hug as fiercely as he could.

Then, by your complete surprise, with his eyes still a little teary, Steve collapsed into loud, chest-heaving laughter at the sight of Bucky's unwrapped present: a pair of dark green mittens.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, according to the official S.H.I.E.L.D. file on Steve, he gave up his art classes in 1938, not 1939, so let's just forget that I flubbed that part of Marvel history up, alright? ;) I'll be more mindful of it in the future... with one exception, which you'll see later on.
> 
> Also, Steve apparently delivered newspapers from 1939 until he was drafted in 1943, so I'm sticking with that. I couldn't find anything on Bucky's job history before the war, so I figured loading boxes onto ships wouldn't have been too hard of a job for someone whose hobby was boxing.


	9. October 1941 (Smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Alex, TrashQueenKacey, Ptl4ever419, and to everyone on tumblr who has been requesting a smut chapter. I'm a little rusty with writing smut, so I hope this is satisfactory. 
> 
> I worked hard to keep this chapter as historically accurate as possible, without it becoming derogatory, condescending, or hilariously awful (i.e. "inner goddess" for vagina, est.). Yes, every term used in this chapter could or would have been used back then. I also kept this chapter relatively vanilla, so the next sexual chapter will most likely be a "first time" or a slightly kinkier situation, depending on what people request of me.

You woke up to the sound of a soft, soothing grumble just below your ear, and the feeling of weight on top of your body – weight that was not your own. It took you a moment to realize that you were lying underneath Bucky, and that he was awake and nuzzling your neck. It took a few more seconds to recognize the low grumbling was his early-morning voice.

“—babygirl... open your pretty eyes for me... c'mon now...”

“Bucky…” you whined softly. Your instincts were telling you that today was your day off, and that you wanted to sleep in, especially since Bucky was so _warm_ and covering you like a second blanket. “S'early...”

“Sun's up,” he cooed, nipping at the crook of your neck and making you smile a little, even though your eyes were still shut. “'M up... Stevie's out for the morning...”

Shortly before last Thanksgiving, following his mother passing away, Steve had finally moved in with Bucky, after a lot of gentle (and not so gentle) prodding and agreements upon finances. Bucky made enough money on his own to cover rent, but Steve still worked most mornings, selling newspapers from the crack of dawn until about lunchtime. And you knew, if Steve had to quit his job for any reason, that Bucky would still support him. You were glad that your two favorite boys were together in one place, making sure the other was doing alright.

But that didn't stop occasional moments of embarrassment from cropping up, especially whenever you or Bucky tried to have a private moment. Which was why you two tried to make the most of whenever Steve wasn't in the apartment. Otherwise, Steve was liable to hear something (which had happened, two or three times), or walk in (which had also happened, once), or catch you two making out in Bucky's good chair like a pair of teenagers (which was now such a frequent occurrence that Steve had given up on complaining about it).

That would explain the sudden feeling of Bucky's morning wood resting against your bare thigh.

“Wanna sleep,” you teased softly, playfully nuzzling your cheek against his hair, which you could feel was messy and fluffed out from sleep.

“You really wanna sleep, hon?” Bucky's voice wasn't teasing; you could hear the soft sincerity in his words. You knew if you told him to leave you be, he would respect that – and then probably head to the bathroom to quietly take care of himself. You gave him the same courtesy, after all. It was something you both had agreed to, when you both had begun having a more physically intimate relationship in May of the previous year.

Part of you honestly did want to go back to sleep. However, a nap was something that you could do whenever it suited you, and sometimes either Steve or Bucky would join you after a long day. Intimate playtime with your fella, without having to worry about interruptions, was a blink-and-you-miss-it affair. Not to mention, having him so close to you, warm skin and lips pressing against your neck, was too arousing to ignore, even this early.

“Mm-mmm,” you shook your head, moving your hand to try and remove some of the crust from your eyes, knowing it would have appeared overnight. You wanted to wash your face and brush your teeth first. It was so much easier for you to feel pretty after having a few minutes to prepare yourself, versus immediately waking up for the day. Thankfully, Bucky had never seemed to mind too much either way. God, you were lucky to have him. “Mind if I brush my teeth first?”

Towards the beginning of 1941, Bucky's landlord – Mr. Holland – had approved his request to have a private bathroom installed in his apartment, if Bucky agreed to pay a “deposit” towards the fees (about $75) and a $5 increase in rent each month. The obscenely small, one-room apartment next to Bucky's hadn't been rented in years, and you assumed Mr. Holland needed the space gone, so it was converted into a bathroom: a small tub with a shower head, a toilet, a sink, and _just_ enough space for a linen closet and some shelves. You hadn't asked outright about where he'd gotten the money, but you figured his boss had given him a bonus for Christmas – now that the Depression was over, and since about half of the men who'd once worked at the docks had enlisted.

Part of you was a little jealous, since you still shared the very large community lavatory in your own apartment complex (even though it was always pristine), but another part of you was relieved for the privacy now. You didn't want to worry about one of Bucky's neighbors – a _stranger_ – walking in and seeing you.

“Go ahead, doll...” Bucky rolled to the side to let you out. That didn't stop him from giving your bottom a soft pop with his hand once you got to your feet.

“ _Buuuckyyy_ —”

“Just enjoyin' the view,” he winked, and you stuck your tongue out at him, before scuttling out of the bedroom.

The bathroom was not attached to Bucky's room, but on the other side of the apartment. You could hear Bucky cracking open the bedroom window as you took care of your business: scrubbed your face with a clean washcloth and some soap. Made sure there weren't any eyelashes in your eyes, or crust, or anything else. Brushed your teeth with some baking soda and water. Part of you wanted to use a brush, but neither Bucky nor Steve had anything other than combs – and the last time you used Steve's comb, it had gotten stuck in your hair. (Bucky had laughed until he'd gone red in the face when Steve tried to help you, then gotten teary-eyed from cackling when it snapped in half.)

You also made sure to use the toilet, for obvious reasons, and you were secretly grateful that there was no blood. Also for obvious reasons.

As you shuffled out of the bathroom, you saw your own clothes – your skirt, your blouse, and the tell-tale signs of your bra still wrapped underneath your blouse for modesty's sake – near the heater, where you'd place them last night after Bucky had begged you to stay. You hadn't been able to say no to his puppy-eyed pleading, and he'd agreed without a word when you whispered, _“No funny business when Steve's here, though,”_ before letting you borrow one of his bigger shirts to cover yourself with. The long arms had kept you warm during the night, and the white button-up felt almost like one of your own blouses, except that it hung down to your thighs.

When you got back into the bedroom, Bucky was popping his muscular back, facing the window, and yawning. His brown locks were still tousled from sleep, and you could see his boxers hanging a little low on his hips. You shut the door as quietly as possible, and Bucky didn't seem to hear it, because he continued to stretch the tension and lethargy out of his muscles for several moments before he caught the sight of you leaning against the door in the corner of his eye.

“Everything alright?” he asked, giving the bed a small pat right by his hip, urging you to come over.

“'M just enjoyin' the view,” you said, shuffling over and onto the bed.

Once you were on the mattress, he kissed you, then wrapped one arm around you waist and pulled you into his lap. He grinned when you let out a surprised squeak at the sudden movement. “Cheeky doll.”

“Oh, always. Thought you knew that,” you teased, before you used most of your weight to push Bucky back onto the bed – which, truthfully, he must have allowed, since his strength was far superior to your weight, and you knew that. Still, he was now on his back, and you were playfully leering over him, so you gave him another kiss: a longer one, one that lingered but remained soft and lazy, and you two were still panting a little when you pulled back to breathe. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck. “God, I'm just so glad you're back, James.”

Bucky had only returned last night, after voluntarily enlisting and being sent into several weeks of training for the United States military. He hadn't been officially drafted into the war – a blessing – and he could go back and serve if he truly desired. Which was something you had been expecting to crop up when his letters claimed that his training at base camp would soon be over. Instead, he returned, and you and Steve had both been surprised. Steve had given his best friend as big of a hug as he could muster, and you'd collapsed into tears when Bucky swung you around in his arms and kissed your cheeks. The moment he saw you and Steve, he hadn't let either of you out of his sight, and you couldn't fault him for that.

“I'm glad too,” Bucky said, one arm still wrapped loosely around your waist and his other softly rubbing your back. “I thought of you every single day, baby...”

“I don't doubt that,” you purred, his erection pressing against your thigh again. The hand around your waist moved, and he gave you an all-too-innocent kiss as his hand reappeared to squeeze your bottom. You were fairly certain he had an obsession, and you loved him anyway. “ _Buckyyy._..”

“ _Whaaat_?” he teased, giving you another kiss, before he asked, in a playfully serious tone, “Were you good for me while I was gone?”

“Of course I was,” you said, pressing a few kisses to the crest between his neck and his jaw, and you almost giggled when goosebumps appeared on his skin. “It was _awful_ _boring_ without you though, Bucky...”

Then you let out a little squeal when Bucky turned in the bed, taking you with him, so you were now on your back and he was over you. He wiggled his eyebrows at you in a very silly way, and you couldn't help but laugh. “It's good that I'm back then, doll. Can't have you getting bored, can I?”

Instead of responding to that, you whispered, “I love you,” and you happily returned the kiss he gave you.

“I love you too, sweetheart. So, so much... You ready for some fun?”

Your eager nod brought forth a small laugh from Bucky, and you giggled as Bucky started kissing the side of your neck again, his fingers wandering lightly by your sides.

Your fella was always very gentle with you – not as if you were frail, but like you were something to be treasured and kept safe. He constantly checked in on you during sex, and you did your best to do the same. In the beginning, there was a lot of inquiries, from both of you, about what felt good and what didn't. You both wanted the other to enjoy what was happening.

There were moments where you'd both made mistakes, of course; not with consent, but with accidentally discovering things your partner didn't like. For example, you were not allowed tug on Bucky's surprisingly sensitive scalp, but you _could_ run your fingers through his hair. Meanwhile, Bucky wasn't allowed to put his hands anywhere on your neck: he had only been petting your neck with his knuckles, nothing forceful or painful, but having someone else's hand so close to your neck had startled you so much that you both had to stop and regroup. (Bucky had been incredibly understanding and apologized several times.) He was allowed touch your shoulders, or clavicle, or the back of your head, or your cheeks if he needed to: just not your neck. There were also moments where one of you would accidentally discover a “kink”, as Dorothy had called it. Bucky had found your praise kink this way, and you'd known about his tendencies to tease you or grab your bottom.

He started unbuttoning your shirt – his shirt – and you let out a needy whine when you reached for Bucky's tented boxers. He moved his hips away when your fingers found the waistband, and you let out a huff.

“Naughty, naughty girl,” Bucky teased, moving away from your neck to kiss your cheek. You could feel yourself blushing when the lines of buttons came undone, baring your breasts to him, but neither of you even considered removing the shirt. Both of you knew that Bucky liked it when you wore his shirts during sex, and the open shirt still allowed him to play with and kiss your chest.

“Bucky -” you breathed.

“Relax, baby,” Bucky cooed softly, his lips moving back to your neck while gently palming your breasts. “Lemme take care of my best girl...”

“Wanna kiss you...”

He gave you a little wink before you were able to kiss him again, one of his hands still on your breast and the other moving to rub your hip. You moved your own hands, both of them, into his fluffy bedhead hair and continued to run your fingers through them, effectively making it worse, but that was alright. You weren't sure how much time passed: you were too focused on how soft and wet Bucky's lips felt against your own, the sound of his soft grunts and mewls when you lightly scratched his scalp (which, you'd learned, was alright), the feeling of his hands switching from one breast to the other, one hip to the other.

Eventually, Bucky broke away, mainly to catch his breath, and as he carefully moved his hands to start easing your panties down your legs, he purred softly, “Good girl, you're so good to me, doll, _so_ _good_...” You expected him to reach for the nearby nightstand drawer, but instead, he started to kiss slowly down your chest.

“Grab your pillow, sweetheart.” That smirk of his was clear in his voice as he started to nuzzle your breasts, peppering them with little suckling kisses that had you squirming before moving towards your stomach. You obeyed, pouting slightly because you missed your fella's kisses, then you let out a loud, surprised squeak of _“Bucky!”_ when he started nibbling at your inner thighs.

“Is something wrong?” Bucky's eyes met yours, and you could see his concern for you.

You shook your head. “I, I just wasn't expecting that.”

Bucky gave you a mischievous grin from between your legs. “It's not as if I've haven't done this before, doll. I wouldn't be treating my best girl right if I didn't eat her pussy.”

And he brushed his tongue against your folds, his nose tickling your clit, and his left hand pressed down firmly onto your stomach to keep you from squirming away. “Behave,” he teased, and he chuckled at your whimpers. Unlike Bucky – who constantly teased and praised and spoke raunchily during sex, you could barely formulate sentences and usually stuck to soft noises instead. He always seemed to make it a mission to get as many little aroused mewls or groans and whimpers out of you as possible.

“Buuuuckyyyyy...” you whined, grabbing the pillow under your head as tightly as your fingers allowed, and his tongue pressed more firmly against your clit before he rose for air.

“I almost forgot how soft you are, babygirl,” he purred, nuzzling your thighs and leaving small kisses in his wake. “And _sensitive_... You're so wet for me...”

“James, I swear to God -” You let out another soft groan when he started rubbing your clit softly with the pad of his thumb, with his other hand rubbing lazy circles on your tummy. Oh, God almighty, his callouses were more pronounced now from training, and you couldn't stop the goosebumps from running across your skin or your legs from twitching a little from the pleasure.

“You like that, doll?”

If you didn't love him so much, you were certain you'd be angry, but that was who Bucky was. If it wasn't praise coming out of his mouth, it would be teasing – and he was a master at that. When you let out an agreeable whimper, he dove back between your legs: his mouth was wet and warm, and it didn't take very long before he pressed down more firmly onto your stomach to keep you from writhing too much. His occasional grunts and moans vibrating your pussy in a way that felt wonderful, and his tongue lapped and nibbled at your folds so much that you could hear how wet you were – how wet Bucky was making you.

When that familiar pressure started swiftly building up in the pit of your stomach, you were vaguely surprised that your fingers weren't cramping from how tightly you were holding onto the pillow. “Bucky, please – please, _please_ –”

“You wanna come, babygirl?” Bucky murmured, his voice muffled slightly as one of his hands pet your outer thigh. “Be a good girl and come, whenever you can. You're so, so good for me.” And it was only moments later when you let out several whining huffs and a soft whimper of _Buckyyyy_ as you came. He continued to rub your belly as he removed his lips from your pussy and leaned his cheek against your inner thigh.

Eventually, when you regained your breath and stopped seeing proverbial stars, you let go of the pillow. You took Bucky's hand – the one on your stomach – and gave it a tender squeeze.

“You always squirm so much when I do that,” Bucky cooed, maneuvering himself until he was no longer between your legs, but leaning half on his side and half on your chest. Most of his weight was on the bed, but your chest still supported his head and his legs were tucked partially against your hip. It was a sweet but seductive cuddle, especially since he was taller than you – and his erection was pressing against your hip.

“It feels good,” you whined softly, knowing there wasn't any other less embarrassing explanation. You could tell by the way he was grinning that he certainly enjoyed hearing that, and he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck until he received a small giggle. “I wanna make you feel good too.”

“You want my cock, babygirl? My good girl wants to be filled with my cock?”

Lord, it was a good thing that neither of you were Catholic, or you both would never leave confession. You were no doubt blushing, but you answered with a soft, “Uh-huh,” and you were giggling again when Bucky rolled on top of you without making you take any of his weight.

“You sure you're ready for another round, doll?”

“Doesn't really count as a full round if you don't come too, Buck,” you said softly, before he gave you a kiss – which lead into several minutes of you both lazily making out, and him carefully rutting his hips against your own. “Take 'em off.”

“Impatient,” Bucky purred, then he chuckled and murmured, “ _Alright_ , _alright_ ,” when you made grabby hands towards the waistband of his boxers. He carefully shuffled them off as you purposefully started kissing his neck.

“Mine,” you mewled, nipping at his collar when his hands started rubbing up and down your sides. “Mine, mine, mine, mine -”

“All yours, sweetheart,” he cooed back, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he finally reached for the side drawer. You knew that Bucky kept rubbers there: it had been something you both discussed prior to your first sexual escapade, and you both weren't taking chances of having intercourse without them. Neither of you wanted a child out of wedlock, and you'd both seen the posters and advertisements warning soldiers about pretty faces and the diseases they no doubt held.

All of this, of course, was something you would _never_ discuss with your mother. Or anyone other than Bucky. Ever.

Once Bucky had rolled the condom on, he helped ease your legs to rest on his hips before he tenderly pecked your lips. “Is this alright, hon?”

“Bucky,” you said, noting his angry red tip was only inches away from your pussy. “I want your cock, now.”

He gave you a little smirk, and you both let out soft little moans as Bucky slowly, carefully pushed himself in. He gave you both a few moments to adjust – you, to his size and girth, and him, to being enveloped in your wet pussy – before he started rocking his hips, pushing himself in and out, and it wasn't long before his low groans and your pleasured mewls filled the bedroom. The scent of sex was overflowing, and you were grateful for the open window, although his neighbors might not.

Bucky's body practically covered yours: him, leaning over you, like a protective blanket, arms wrapped comfortingly beside your torso, thumbs occasionally rubbing your nipples, and his lips lightly, lazily leaving kisses on your shoulders, cheeks, lips. You ran your own fingers across his muscular chest and nuzzles his cheeks when he was close to your face, trying not to squeeze your legs too tightly around his hips whenever his thrusting went especially deep, listening to his dirty cries:

“Fuck, fuck...”

“Keep moaning for me... good girl...”

“So _wet_ , babygirl...”

“ _Fuuuuuck_...”

“Sweetheart, you're _so_ _tight_ for me...”

“So, so _beautiful_ , baby...”

“ _Bucky_ ,” you whimpered when you felt another orgasm quickly approaching, and you were certain he knew it too, because he moved his arms, one wrapping around your back and cuddling you closer to him, and the other reached between both of your legs to rub against your clit.

“Come for me, doll,” Bucky purred into your ear, still pumping his hips as you whimpered and writhed under his ministrations. “Be a good girl and come for me.” You felt yourself practically clenching around his cock at those words, and if his low moan of, _“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuck,”_ meant anything, then Bucky must have come seconds after you. He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, before he let go of you and pulled out. You pouted at the loss of contact, but you watched him dispose of the used condom and stretch his back again – and shamelessly looked at his muscular ass the whole time – before he shuffled back into bed with you.

He chuckled when you grabbed onto him like a baby koala, and he cuddled you close and cooed loving reassurances into your ear: you were loved, you were good, you were beautiful. He had missed you, and he was going to stay with you. Did you enjoy yourself? (Yes.) Did you want a shower? (No, you could take one back at your apartment, when you could change into new clothes.) Did you want to sleep?

When you nodded, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I'm gonna take a shower, doll,” he explained softly when you tried to keep him in the bed with you. You were a cuddler, and normally, so was he. “You take your nap, and I'll be back before you wake up. Alright?” You pouted, but you nodded along, and you felt a little better when he snuggled you up into the blankets for warmth. Even though the sun was peeking through the window, you could still feel your eyes drooping, and the last thing you recalled was Bucky pressing his lips to your forehead and murmuring, “Sleep well, doll,” before he went to the shower.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the amount of research I did for this chapter, I'm going to share some fun facts here, pertaining to sex prior to and during WWII:
> 
> Condoms existed, but they didn't become especially "acceptable" to use until around World War I, when MANY soldier started contracting STD's and were unable to serve because of it. Condoms came in paper packaging and were made strictly from rubber in the 1930's, due to FDA regulations, and they could be sold safely from any health care provider. Condoms were promoted by the Surgeon General in 1940, due to lower STD rates. 
> 
> In World War II, male soldiers receives multiple forms of propaganda towards the use of condoms when they enlisted for the war, while enlisted women were enrolled in abstinence programs (despite condoms becoming regulation for military families and personal). Abstinence only programs were then promoted by the military after 1947 for both genders. 
> 
> If you were a woman, shaving your legs had become a popular practice following the Great Depression, but most women didn't start shaving their pubic hair until post-1970's. Having pubic hair was a sign of being an adult, rather than a child, and a sign of sexual confidence.


	10. October 1939

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to anylov3lylittlethought, DontBeSuchASourWolf, Georgie, and to everyone else who requested the pond incident. 
> 
> This particular chapter is a little different than the others. It was very emotional for me to write, for several reasons (and my readers are brilliant and can probably make their own educated guesses while they read). This chapter also delves more into the concept of why someone might ask outright for a spanking. As someone who tends to feel unnecessarily guilty over real-life situations, this is important (in my mind at least). As always, any and all questions/comments/concerns about the relationship between Bucky and the Reader will be handled with love and care.

It was about a week and a half before Halloween when Bucky brought it up: “Hey, doll, how do you feel 'bout meeting my family?” And despite immediately saying that you'd love to meet them, you felt conflicted. Part of you was glad that Bucky wanted you to meet the rest of the Barnes family; you assumed that only meant good things for your relationship. You also knew, from Steve's and Bucky's stories, that they were good people. On the other hand, it most likely meant that Bucky also wished to meet _your_ family, which... well, that was something you would like to avoid for as long as possible.

It wasn't that you didn't trust Bucky. You loved Bucky, and you knew that – whenever he _did_ meet your mother and brother – he would handle it with dignity and grace, and your family would accept him. The issue laid in the fact that you really, _really_ did _not_ want to have the inevitable discussion that would arise with Bucky meeting your family. The “So, doll, where's your old man?” discussion.

Because Bucky didn't know about what had happened with your father.

Was it deceitful? Yes, you couldn't and wouldn't deny that. But there wasn't really any sort of “good time” to mention your personal issues against your father – your whole family's issues against him. Especially since you'd only known Bucky all of six months, and been going steady with him for five of them. You had a feeling that, the moment either Bucky _or_ Steve knew the truth, they wouldn't treat you the same. If you ran through a list of people you'd met through-out your entire life, the amount of people who'd been a child of a legal divorce, or abandonment, or both (in yours and Kenneth's case), would be exceptionally minuscule. It wasn't something people liked to talk about: the idea of abandonment amidst the Depression.

When the girls on your apartment complex had asked about your family, they'd all automatically assumed the same thing: your father had passed away, like Steve's, like many other men had during World War I, and you hadn't wanted to talk about it. While divorce wasn't out of the question if someone wanted it, most women wouldn't have taken the route your mother had. Not if it meant living on their own, or facing the public as a divorced woman. Your Aunt Cassie proved that well enough. Divorce was an exception, not a rule. While you were proud of your mother for standing up for herself and for you and Kenneth, you also couldn't fault your friends for making that assumption about your family. Steve and Mrs. Rogers had made the same assumption as well, after all.

Shortly after Steve's birthday on July the fourth, he asked if you would want to visit his mother, since she'd been politely asking to meet her son's newest friend. Just like with Bucky, he told Sarah Rogers stories about you – but only _after_ you and Bucky had started going steady. He had gotten a bit of an earful for not mentioning it sooner, but he hadn't wanted to hear Bucky _and_ his mom trying to convince him to date you. (You hadn't been even remotely offended when he explained that on the walk over.) It hadn't taken very long for Sarah Rogers, as fair haired and wispy-looking as her own son, to pull you into a hug and start asking polite questions.

Admittedly, Steve had never pried very much for information about your family. He'd yet to meet Kenneth because of your brother's job, and neither of you had pushed for Steve to come see your mother again (nor would you ever). He had always seemed satisfied with whatever you'd mentioned from Kenneth's letters or from your own visits with your mom. So, when Sarah Rogers eventually asked if your father also worked at the bank with your mother, your stomach had clenched. Both of them had noticed your silence, and when you replied with, “Um, he's not around anymore,” the subject had been dropped – until Steve left the kitchen to use the bathroom.

Mrs. Rogers had taken your hands into her own and looked you in the eye. You hadn't seen any kind of pity: only sympathy and compassion. “Steve's father died during the war too, a few months before I gave birth. We know what it's like, sweetie. Please don't feel like you're alone.”

You didn't correct her. You didn't dare correct Sarah Rogers with your shameful secret. Instead, you had broken down into tears, ashamed at your own silence. She must have mistaken it for something else, because Mrs. Rogers only wrapped her arms around you and hugged you tightly and didn't say anything about you crying against her shoulder. Steve had never brought it up afterwards, and you were grateful for that.

For some reason or another, Bucky had never made too many inquires about your family either. Whether to respect your own privacy, or because he'd previously weaseled information out of Steve, you weren't sure. He seemed alright with knowing whatever you told him, and he would occasionally ask questions, but nothing prying: “Kenneth doing alright?” or “Your mama still at the bank?” Little, simple questions. You told him stories from your childhood, and sometimes they would include both of your parents, but if he noticed that you always spoke of your father in past tense, he never pointed it out.

**~ * ~**

The Barnes family was too sweet for words.

You went over to their home for supper on Tuesday night, one week before Halloween, and you'd practically been shaking in your shoes when Bucky picked you up from your apartment. As it turned out, they didn't live too far away from Steve, only a few blocks, and that made you feel vaguely better. Bucky kept his hand around your waist the whole walk over, both protecting you and keeping you steady, and he'd given you a small peck on the cheek after knocking on the front door.

“Rebecca and the folks' are the only ones around,” he whispered softly. “Everyone else's working, so you can meet 'em later.” Bucky's two other siblings, brothers who were eighteen and sixteen respectively, both had part-time jobs in addition to their school work.

Winifred Barnes had reminded you so much of your own mother: confident, intelligent, tender with her own husband and her children – but also with an aura that commended respect. Her face and body was very long and angular – most of her body was; many women had lost weight and retained a world-weary appearance following the Great War and the Depression. But her eyes were warm. Bucky clearly adored her, and that was evident from the moment you both stepped into the four-room apartment. She caught sight of him first and pulled him in a one-armed hug – while simultaneously scolding him for taking so long in between his last visit (which, according to Bucky, had been earlier the week before). Then she noticed you, looking a little lost and awkwardly standing near the door frame.

She gave you a _come_ _here_ gesture with both of her hands, before wrapping both of her arms around you and cuddling you close with such tenderness, you almost started crying. The only thing that kept you from doing so was her voice, which was still directed to her son: “James Buchanan, why on Earth did you not bring this sweet girl over sooner?”

“Ma, I didn't ask her 'til Sunday,” Bucky explained, and you could feel Winifred's knuckles rubbing down your back. Huh. So that's where Bucky learned it from. It felt really nice. “I didn't think it'd be too appropriate before now.”

“James, you've been telling me nothing but good things since May.” Mrs. Barnes' voice was just above your ear: she was taller than you – and shorter than Bucky, but only by a hair.

“I know. I wanted to make sure we were serious before -”

“I don't mind, Mrs. Barnes,” you said, even though your voice was slightly muffled by her shoulder. “Our first date didn't exactly go too well.”

“ _James_!”

“Mama, I can explain that -”

“BUCKY!” Rebecca Barnes – dark-haired, but thin and tall, and all of thirteen years old – made a bee-line straight for her oldest brother. He immediately pulled her into a hug and started tickling her sides, teasing her about what she was going to be for Halloween, how she was doing in school, and anything else that popped off the top of his head, while she was laughing and trying to squirm away. Winifred Barnes finally let go of you, before gently ushering you into the small kitchen and away from most of the noise.

George Barnes, world-weary and taller than even Bucky, had been quietly reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. You knew that he'd previously served in the Great War, just like your own father, and Bucky had told you that Mr. Barnes wasn't one for talking very much. When he saw you, however, a smile stretched across his face, and it reminded you so much of Bucky's, you couldn't help but smile back.

Dinner had been very warm and welcoming. There had been just enough food for the five of you – some kind of chili that involved several types of beans and some vegetables, but very little meat; and buttered bread – and there hadn't been any sort of silence. Rebecca, after chattering on about her own day, found it fascinating that you worked at a seamstress shop and asked multitudes of questions about it. Apparently, she wasn't very good at sewing (“It's so _boring_ and slow!”), but she admired anyone who could do it professionally. George Barnes had asked normal questions that required easy answers: “I turn twenty in December, sir,” or “I live in an all-girls' complex. It's only a few blocks from where I work.” It helped settle your nerves.

Winifred endeared herself to you without even trying. She told you childhood stories of Bucky – nothing overtly embarrassing, but each story had just enough to make Bucky blush or squirm a little in his seat. You absorbed all of it happily: pranks with Steve, science fairs, athletic events, church potlucks that Bucky would inevitably fall asleep at in the middle of a pew. By the time everyone's plates were clear, Bucky was almost pouting, and you found that absolutely adorable.

When you both left, night had fallen completely, and Bucky escorted you home, an arm around your waist, both of you peacefully quiet for several blocks. Eventually, he gave your hip a little squeeze and asked, “You enjoy yourself, doll?”

You nodded. “Your family's real sweet, Bucky. I like your mama.”

“I can see you two being real close,” he said, pecking the crown of your head. “She really likes you.” The thought of that – the idea of being close to Bucky's family instead of being begrudgingly accepted as _the_ _steady_ – made you feel exceptionally giddy.

**~ * ~**

It didn't take long for it all to come crashing down around your ears.

The next few days, you heard neither high nor hair of either Bucky or Steve – which, realistically, wasn't too unusual. It was during the work week, and all three of you were employed, so unless one of the popped by the shop – or you went out of your way to visit their apartments, you didn't normally see them until Friday afternoon or the weekends. Bucky had mentioned wanting to spend all of Saturday with you, and – knowing you both had the day off – you'd agreed wholeheartedly.

You'd finished getting dressed for the day and just grabbed a sweater from your tiny closet when you heard someone knock before entering your apartment. You knew it wasn't one of the girls: they usually just barged in. Steve would always knock and wait for you to answer, and Bucky would _sometimes_ wait. If you didn't immediately say, “No!” or “Wait!” when he knocked, he would be in your living area within five seconds. And most of the time, it wasn't an issue.

Still, when you saw him, you felt a little under-dressed, even though everything you had on was clean and fit well. He was wearing a crisp, white shirt and some dark slacks that looked more... new than his normal outfits. They looked like good Sunday church clothes, the kind you didn't want to dirty up under any sort of circumstance: something that fell just short of a full-out funeral suit, without being so depressing. Easter Sunday clothes. Communion. A guest for a nice wedding.

“You look very handsome,” you told him, giving him a kiss. Bucky was always handsome, of course, and he always dressed well for your dates, but this seemed a little excessive for a normal Saturday. “What's the occasion, Buck?”

“No reason,” he said, cuddling you close for a moment, before he tacked on, “Oh, I just thought everyone oughta see how handsome of a fella my best girl has.”

“Oh, is Stevie here too?” you teased, before you shrieked with laughter when he started tickling your sides.

The weather was a pleasant surprise: after several days of overcast and nearly-freezing temperatures, the sun had finally come out, and the temperatures had risen into the sixties with very little humidity. Not a cloud was in sight, and it hadn't taken much convincing to get Bucky to walk around Central Park with you. Neither of you were surprised to see the park was filled with families, couples, children who were all enjoying the pleasant weather and bright atmosphere.

Bucky happily wrapped an arm around your waist during your walk, and you gleefully melted into his side. You could see the occasional girl pouting in envy at the sight of you two together, and you understood that most of it stemmed from Bucky's own physical appearance. If only they knew Bucky was just as handsome on the inside... Actually, it was probably best that they didn't: they might break down into jealous tears! You both spent several minutes mindlessly walking around, chatting and teasing each other, before Bucky eventually kissed your cheek and admitted,

“Sugar, I don't wanna push, but I'd like to meet your family too.” His voice was very gentle and mild, but everything inside of you – your feelings, your stomach, a great weight – just... sank. You felt this sheer sense of sinking, of something collapsing inside of you, and you immediately knew it wasn't anything physical.

That probably also explained why he dressed so nice: he thought you would say yes and take him to your mother.

No.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Nope.

“Bucky, I... I don't think that's a good idea,” you said quietly, hoping he would drop the issue. Instead, he had gone rather stiff.

“Why?” You could hear the hurt in his tone, and you purposefully avoided looking at him. “I mean, you met my family, and —”

“I _loved_ your family —”

“Is your mama sick? Or Kenneth?”

“Kenneth's in Jersey. And no,” you shook your head. “I just...”

When you couldn't think of the exact words to say, Bucky asked, “Do... do you not trust me, doll?” You could practically hear the soft implication in his voice. The unasked questions: _Do you not want me around them, doll? Do they not know about me? Is our relationship not as serious to you, as it is for me?_

“I trust you, Bucky,” you replied sincerely. You meant that. You trusted Bucky so, so much. But you didn't quite trust yourself, not with this. Not when it came to this dirty little secret. “I, I just don't trust my mama so much.”

Bucky relaxed somewhat with your explanation. His arm remained around your waist, rubbing your hip carefully. “I'm sure it'll all work out just swell, hon.” He chuckled a little, then teased, “If your mama liked our favorite little punk, I'm sure we'll get along mighty fine.”

Your stomach suddenly felt like a bottomless pit: endless anxiety and nerves and concern. “You know about that?”

Bucky nodded. His voice was mild: “Steve told me a while ago. He kept blushing. Don't worry, he wasn't mad —”

“Buck, I had _told_ her —”

“I know —”

“I had!”

“Hey, it's alright,” Bucky tried to sooth you, but you were shaking your head and having none of it.

“Bucky, no.”

“Doll —” he started, his tone quickly becoming exasperated.

“NO.”

Bucky let out a small huff. “Stevie's told me everything. Everything.” _Everything Steve knew,_ you wanted to say, but you kept quiet. Steve thought your father was dead – and Bucky must have as well – and he was as good as dead, as far as you were concerned... but that was a lie, and knowing that was a lie broke your heart. “You don't have to worry about that —”

“Buck —”

“You don't have to worry about anything.” His voice was sincere, but you weren't looking at him. You kept your focus ahead, on yours and his feet. There was water nearby, some pond with little ducklings, and there were children playing loudly nearby. Bucky's hand was still rubbing your hip. “Doll?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you alright?”

You shook your head.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

You shook your head again, and Bucky sighed.

“I can't help you if you don't want to talk about it.”

“'M _scared_ , Bucky,” you admitted quietly, and that was the truth. He let go of your hip and moved so he was now standing in front of you, his hands holding your own.

“Sugar,” he said, his voice very soft and purposefully soothing, like with a tiny frightened animal. Normally, you wouldn't have minded, but for some reason, hearing that tone _now_ – instead of Bucky simply dropping the issue – was aggravating. “Someone like you doesn't need to have a single ounce of fear inside of their pretty little head. Not when you've got someone like me around to take care of you.”

A great surge of anger pulsed through your veins, stronger than any other form of ferocity you'd ever felt before. You were _furious._ And Bucky must have noticed this immediately, because he said, “Doll?” in such a clear and gentle tone, you knew that he was clueless as to why you were angry.

And that _hurt._

You didn't reply verbally. Instead, you gripped his hands firmly and pushed. And Bucky, who hadn't been expecting any of it, fell backwards when you let go of his hands – and fell straight into the pond. The loud splash helped relive some of your anger. When Bucky arose seconds later, spitting out water, drenched and covered in pond-scum and looking incredulous, you wanted to cry, but not from sadness.

“Bucky Barnes,” you found yourself shouting, and it took you a second to realize that you actually _were_ crying. “I am so mad at you right now, I could skin you alive! You – are – awful!”

And you stomped off, ignoring the hot tears cascading down your cheeks and Bucky's voice calling your name to please, please come back.

**~ * ~**

As soon as you got back to your apartment, you took a shower in the community stall and cried for nearly an hour. Thankfully, nobody was around to hear you, so you didn't have to worry about quieting your sobs and over-using the hot water. By the time all of your tears were wrung out, you felt incredibly weak. You'd done a lot of thinking while inside of the shower, and now you simply wanted to change your clothes and perhaps take a nap, even though it was barely one o'clock.

In hindsight, you supposed that any normal girl probably would've laughed Bucky's last comment off.

It was common – no, almost mandatory – that men be the providers for a household and protect those in the family. You knew George Barnes had done that for his family, and you could assume that Bucky would want the same. Steve had been in a different situation, of course, because of his father passing away, but you knew Steve – and his pride would most likely urge him to be the bread-winner, despite his various illnesses. And you... You could only think of your mother. Even before your father jumped town, she'd been the one to take care of your family financially. In a way, your bizarre little family was a blessing in disguise: seeing your mother provide for you all had shown that women were just as capable as men to be the bread-winners.

You had been the one to take care of yourself once you left home, and truly, you liked having that kind of independence. The knowledge that _you_ could provide for _yourself_ , and you could make it one your own without any additional help. And you knew that Bucky wasn't implying that he would take that away from you. He constantly told you how proud of you he was about having your own job, a job you enjoyed. When you talked about your job to Steve or him or his family, his eyes always lit up.

But if you were honest, you weren't entirely sure what Bucky _had_ been implying at the park. That you shouldn't fear for the future? That you shouldn't fear for your own financial well-being? That you shouldn't be afraid, as long as you had someone of the male variety (someone like Bucky) to provide for you? It had certainly sounded like the last one. You knew Bucky: he didn't have a cruel bone in his body towards you or Steve – or anyone, really.

But when he'd said that, it had felt like he'd punched you in the chest. All you could think of was your mother initially struggling to keep a roof over your heads after your father jumped town; arguments with the bank over his name being on the mortgage, not hers; the lawyers who'd sneered at her when she explained she wasn't at fault. How sick you'd felt any time you'd heard your mother crying from her own bedroom, which had been constant for the six months following his absence. How much weight both you and your mother lost from a lack of eating. (40 pounds for her, and 15 for you. You eventually gained yours back, but she didn't.) How Kenneth's jaw _still_ clenches whenever someone mentions the word “Dad”. Growing up in the Depression meant that you didn't have much, except your own pride, and Bucky had wounded it severely.

Jesus, no wonder you had pushed him.

It wasn't until you'd gotten yourself into a different dress and started brushing through your wet, tangled hair when you realized that – as much as you wanted to avoid it – you owed Bucky an explanation. You didn't want to break up with him: Bucky was still one of the most gentle and caring and loving people you'd ever met, and you didn't want to let him go. You knew that, part of this morning had been caused by your refusal to tell Bucky this secret – which, you also recognized, was dishonest. Which was something you both had agreed not to be with each other. You had also agreed not to be mean towards Bucky, and – regardless of why – pushing someone into a pond while angry wasn't very nice. Everyone knew that.

No matter how this morning had played out, you had a feeling in your bones that the rest of the day would remain a shit-show. So, you decided to take a small nap, and you would visit Bucky at his apartment when you woke up. And, if you were lucky, after you explained everything, he would still want to be your fella.

And if not... well, you supposed you couldn't fault him for that.

**~ * ~**

You could hear Bucky's voice from the stairwell as you neared his floor, and you felt rather anxious. You could tell he wasn't yelling – just speaking very loudly, since the stairwells had relatively thin walls – and whomever he was talking to was using a much more acceptable tone of voice.

It wasn't until you neared the hallway when you could vaguely make out Bucky's words, and you were nearly about to knock when you heard Steve's voice in the mix. And that stopped you in your tracks, the idea of Steve being nearby and _Steve_ knowing what had happened today. Which would probably mean that Steve would learn more about your family eventually too. You could feel your heart breaking more and more with each thought.

“... don't understand ...”

“... wrong, really wrong ...”

“... tact of a _mule_ , Buck ...”

“... don't know what to do ...”

Before you could stop yourself, you knocked on the door, and both voices immediately stopped. You waited for several seconds before knocking again, and you finally heard Steve: “Who is it?”

“It's me,” you said, knowing both of them would recognize your voice. Before either of them could get the chance to say _go away_ , you tacked on, “I-I came to talk and, and to apologize. And to explain.”

You waited for several seconds outside of the door, even though it felt like an eternity, before the knob finally turned. Steve stood there, giving you a look that you recognized as a sympathetic hello, before letting you inside. As you took off your shoes and put them near Steve's and Bucky's own, Steve shut the door, and it took only a moment for you to locate Bucky: sitting in one of the hard wood chairs in the small living room, wrapped up tight in his robe, his hair still wet – but cleaner. He looked very, very tired, and his expression was mostly neutral, but there was a faint redness around his eyes.

“Hey, Buck,” you said in a small voice, your insides churning with the realization that you had made Bucky cry. You could hear some noise behind you: Steve was putting on his shoes.

“Hey, doll,” he said softly, rubbing his nose a little, not quite looking at you.

As you made your way over towards the couch, Steve murmured, “I better be going now,” in a small voice, and both of you let him go without further comment. Several awkward seconds passed after the door closed, with you picking at your nails and Bucky breathing heavily, before you collected your courage:

“I, I... Bucky, I —”

“What did I do?” Bucky's voice was so soft, you almost didn't catch his words. You hadn't expected for his voice and demeanor to be sorrowful and small. You had been expecting yelling and anger and ranting, and perhaps even threats about no longer going steady. Not for Bucky to appear this _broken._ “Doll, what did I... what did I say? What did I do?”

When Bucky finally looked at you, his eyes were teary, and his expression confused, and you felt awful. You'd seen people use their tears for manipulative purposes in the past, but you _knew_ Bucky's tears were sincere. You could see that he was tearing himself up over this morning. Both of you were. He probably didn't know how to articulate his confusion.

“You said that someone like me didn't have to be afraid as long as I had someone like you to take care of me.” Normally, you didn't recall people's exact words without writing them down, but your fight had struck home. At his nod, you continued: “Bucky, I got real offended by that 'cause... well, I'm a little confused by what you meant. I thought you meant that, that women didn't need to worry about money as long as they got a fella, but I can take care of myself, and my mama can take care of herself, and you're always saying how proud of me you are about my work, and it sounded like you had been lying about that. And that really hurt.”

Bucky nodded. You could almost see the gears were running in his head, processing everything from your rambling, and a couple moments passed before he said, “I _am_ proud of you. I'm so, so proud of you: you go into work almost every day, and you work hard, and you come back with a great smile on your face and tell me everything you accomplished, doll. I can see how much your job makes you happy, and I'm proud of you for that.” He sighed and rubbed his face with one hand, before he got up from his chair and moved to sit beside you on the couch.

“I probably should've explained this better,” Bucky continued, carefully taking one of your hands into his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I didn't mean to imply that you can't take care of yourself. I know you can. Any dame has a right to take care of herself if she wants. What I meant was, you don't need to worry about being by yourself, ever. I'm gonna be by your side, doll, for as long as you want me. I don't want you to get nervous about that – or about money too, I suppose. I know you can take care of yourself. But if _anything_ ever happened – and I don't want it to, but if it ever _did_ , I sure as hell will help you as best as I can. And even if everything goes on being swell forever, I'm still gonna help you, 'cause you're my best girl.”

He gave your hand another squeeze. “And, and I know this probably isn't the time to mention it, but I didn't want you—” Bucky stopped. His expression was obvious: he was grasping for words, and you waited patiently for him to continue. “I don't want you worrying about me dying, doll... There are rumors flying around in the newspapers 'bout everything going on over in Europe, and I don't want you to worry about any of that, not right now. I'm not gonna die on you.”

You had a rather vague understanding of what Bucky was trying to imply: he wasn't going to pass away and leave you to scramble for yourself, presumably like your father had to your mother. Because he still thought your father had died in the Great War. As obvious of an oversight as that was, it still was mostly your fault: you'd never corrected him. But there was another little thing niggling at the back of your mind.

“You, you still wanna be with me?” You let out a loud squeak when Bucky unceremoniously grabbed you into his arms and sat you in his lap. His arms naturally wrapped around your waist, and you had to suppress the urge to lean against his chest.

“Now what's got you thinking like that, doll? I just said I'm not gonna leave your side.”

“Bucky,” you said plainly, “I pushed you into the lake in Central Park. And I probably ruined your good clothes. I, I thought you were gonna holler, and say you didn't want to go steady anymore, and that —”

“I'm not gonna holler at you. I'm all out of hollering: Steve caught most of it when I was trying to figure everything out.” He pecked your cheek. “We do need to get back on the same page, doll.”

You nodded. “But, we're still going steady, right?”

When he nodded, you finally leaned against him and wrapped your arms around his chest. One of his hands moved to play with your hair, and Bucky started rocking a little, and you almost started crying under the realization that you were _tired_. Both of you were probably tired. Today had been really emotionally taxing — and you knew it was nowhere near the end.

Time to let the cat out of the bag, you supposed. No greater, or important, time than the present.

“My father didn't die in the war, Buck,” you murmured after several minutes of cuddling. “He, he didn't – Steve and his mama think that my, that he died in the war, like Steve's did, but... but he didn't, and...”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky said, his voice mild, his arms never moving from their place around you, “I figured out that your daddy didn't die in the war a couple weeks ago. Steve knows too.”

“How?”

“That story you told me a while back? About the harvest festivals down in the Ozarks? You mentioned your daddy took you one year in junior high when your mama and Kenneth got sick.”

During each fall, for an entire week, your hometown had a great festival where many of the farmers would have competitions to see who grew the largest vegetables: turnips and pumpkins and squash, to name a few. Who made the best desserts: pies and fudge and cake, and whomever won receives a blue ribbon. How much did a certain piglet, baby sheep, puppy weigh: whoever was closest without going over won the animal. Farmers with large tractors would pull children around in carriages full of hay. Vendors sold caramel apples and cotton candy and sweets. Others had games set up: ring tosses, pop balloons with darts, beanbag tosses.

The festivals had stopped in 1933, because of the Depression and the high amount of farmers who'd lost crops (and their farmland), but before then, your whole family would go each year at least once. It was free to enter, and to enter various competitions, but certain games and sweets had penny or nickel prices, which had always been worth it. (You and Kenneth would save up any pocket money for months in advance.) Your father would usually take you and Kenneth a second time, closer to the end of the festival, so your mom could have peace and quiet. And Bucky was right: in 1931, when you were in junior high, both your mother and Kenneth had a horrible stomach bug, and your father took you to the harvest festival anyway – to keep you both from getting sick, and because he hadn't been able to handle the disappointed expression on your face.

“I figured he must've died before you and your family moved up here. From rickets or something. I read something 'bout how a whole bunch of kids in Virginia kept getting it from being malnourished. I brought it up to Steve, and we assumed it would be better to not bring it up until you were ready, doll. We didn't want to hurt your feelings.” He sighed. “Wound up doing the exact opposite —”

“My father isn't dead, Bucky,” you interjected, your stomach twisting into knots at the sound of Bucky's rambling, regardless of how well-intended it was.

“What?” His voice was full of confusion, and you took in a deep breath.

“My father isn't dead. He, he left, Buck.” Your vision was blurring, and you knew you were close to tears. Your view of Bucky was unclear, and that provided a bizarre wave of confidence: not having to look at his face while telling him this horrible secret, so you plowed on. You needed to tell Bucky everything. Everything about the divorce: about how hard it had been for you, your mother, Kenneth; how much the three of you had struggled; that you hadn't heard a single word from your father, even though it had now been a few years.

So you kept talking. Rambling, really. Once those words came out, you essentially ended up spilling your guts – and you were a little surprised that he didn't run for the hills. It was a lot to take in, and you would occasionally feel his arms tighten protectively around you when you mentioned something particularly difficult: your mother selling jewelry to put food on the table; your best friends in the Ozarks asking where your father had gone (and you hadn't lied); Kenneth getting into a nasty street fight when a banker called your mother a “divorced whore”.

By the time you stopped, you had managed – miraculously – to not cry. There was something about having Bucky remain as a silent, steady support that allowed you to speak without fear of rejection, and that kept your tears at bay. “We, we moved here to get on with our lives,” you eventually said. “I, I didn't tell you or Steve or anybody because I... I didn't want you to look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Bucky's voice was gentler than before.

“Like, as if I were nothing but a broken doll.”

“You are _not_ broken,” he said, his tone surprisingly firm, given how soft it had been moments before.

“I _feel_ broken,” you admitted. “Sometimes. Because of this. I feel _ashamed_.”

“The _only_ person who ought to be ashamed is your father,” Bucky said. “I know you, doll. You're a smart dame, and a good person. Except when you act like a brat,” and he tickled your side. You squirmed a little as he continued, “But you're _my_ brat.”

There was a part of you that still felt completely heart-broken, and it took you a few moments to realize that those feelings stemmed from your father: wounds that might potentially never heal, from being rejected. It hurt, but you had the rest of your family who would never reject you. And you had Bucky and Steve, who you were as close to as family, even though you'd known them both for less than a year. The weight that had been lying in the pit of your stomach had disappeared completely, and you knew that was only because of Bucky's words —

“I'm sorry for not telling you that sooner. And for acting like a brat. You didn't deserve that,” you admitted, and he kissed your forehead.

“I know you are, doll. And I'm guessing that was why you didn't want me to meet your family, huh? 'Cause of your dad.” You nodded a little, and he nodded too. “I understand. And I owe you an apology as well.”

Of all the things you'd been expecting to hear, _that_ hadn't been one of them. “What?”

“I owe you an apology,” he repeated. “I shouldn't have said what I did. I should've explained myself better, and you would've known what I meant – you would have known that I didn't mean to hurt you. But I did, and that isn't what I want to do at all. I'm sorry.”

“Bucky,” you said, “You didn't know. I, I kept all that from you, and you didn't know —”

“Hey, hey,” he stroked your cheek. “I get it. I know we promised to communicate with each other and being honest, but I'm not gonna fault you for not wanting to tell me about it. Something like that's _real_ private and sensitive. And I should've asked, since we said we would talk out anything important. I didn't do that, and I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry too,” you said, even though you knew you were repeating yourself. “For, for hiding everything.”

Both of you sat in silence for quite some time, with Bucky cuddling you close, and you snuggling you face into the crest between his shoulder and torso.

Finally. This awful day could be over. You both had cleared the air with each other, and both of you had apologized for the fight – or, rather, apologized for the reasons behind the fight. Which had all been valid, of course – just terribly, _terribly_ misunderstood.

So, why did you still feel so guilty? Normally, whenever you apologized to someone, it was over and done with: the stone-sized lump of guilt didn't typically remain. Then again, when you apologized to someone, you always offered to make it up to the person you'd wronged. That's what an apology was, after all.

You and Bucky had forgiven each other for your mutual misunderstandings. You didn't feel guilty over that. You had made it up to each other by clearing the air. You both knew that the two of you would communicate better and easier in the future because of this incident. There was no denying any of that.

However, no matter your reasoning, valid as it was, you had still pushed Bucky into the lake. You both had promised to treat each other with politeness and respect. And shoving your partner into a lake during an argument was the exact opposite of those two thing. (You also felt guilty over ruining his clothes: very few people had good clothes, especially during this depression, and neither of you were made of money.) Bucky didn't deserve to have a steady who was disrespectful to him (nobody deserved that), and you knew that you needed to make it up to him.

Well, not necessarily _make it up_ , as much as _make things right again_. There was a difference. And you knew what that would entail. You both had agreed upon it months ago.

 _Guess the night isn't over after all,_ you thought wryly.

“Buck...?” you asked softly.

“Hmm?” he pecked the side of your head.

“I... I think I,” you could feel yourself blushing, and you knew there was no easy way to say it. Or stop it. “I, I think I deserve a spanking.”

Bucky's brows furrowed together, and you felt a little queasy. You wanted to melt into the floor. “Sugar, I. I don't understand.”

“I, I wasn't very good to you, Bucky,” you said in a small voice. “You and I promised to treat each other with respect, and... and I know you said you forgive me for not telling you everything right away – and I'm not mad anymore about what you said, but... but I still pushed you into the lake. And you didn't deserve that. And, and I feel bad about it...”

Bucky nodded, rocking you a little, before he kissed your head again. “Hon, I've already forgiven you. For everything today. But if you need help forgiving yourself, then I'll help you.”

Need help forgiving yourself. That was certainly one way of putting it. You knew – from past experience – that a spanking from Bucky was very cathartic. It was emotional, but in a good way (as strange as that sounded): it released all of the tension from your body and wiped away whatever guilt you felt, especially since you knew that Bucky would never truly hurt you. You both had set boundaries and agreed to this, and in this particular instance, you had literally asked for it.

That didn't mean you weren't a little nervous, though. It had been almost two months since the last time Bucky had spanked you. _Really_ spanked you, that is. He'd actually spanked you once since your Bad Day in August, but it had been surprisingly playful.

Sometime in the middle of September, Steve and Bucky had been rolling around on the floor of your apartment, laughing and tussling and wresting each other while you finished getting dressed for an afternoon with your favorite boys. You were ignoring them for the most part, but Bucky had eventually gotten Steve into a headlock. It wasn't harsh by any means, but for someone with a frailer stature like Steve's, it would be impossible to break out of. So, you intervened: you tickled Bucky's sides, making him let go in shock, before both you and Steve started to fight dirty and managed to pin Bucky onto his back.

Your fella admitted defeat, and you and Steve shared a celebratory hug. Then Bucky managed to grab Steve and started rubbing his knuckles against Steve's blonde scalp. You'd seen multiple noogies over the years – and felt a few, under Kenneth's hand – so when Bucky let go of Steve and turned towards you, you immediately held up your hands.

“ _Bucky, no, my hair!”_ you had whined. You had spent about twenty minutes pinning it together, and a noogie would effectively ruin it. Not to mention, Bucky would've been rubbing his fist against a firm, prickly layer of bobby pins.

“ _'M not aiming for your hair, doll,”_ Bucky had teased in retaliation, before he tucked you under his arm with a surprising amount of grace – then popped your bottom four or five times. It hadn't hurt: the swats had been just hard enough for you to feel through your skirt. And the whole thing had lasted two or three seconds, even with you trying to squirm away. Once you were right-side-up again, Bucky wrapped his arm around your waist again (properly) and pecked several, soft quick kisses to your cheek, making over-exaggerated smooching noises until you laughed.

Steve never brought that up afterwards – probably from his own sense of modesty – but you and Bucky had discussed it later on. You hadn't minded the playful spanking at all, since you knew your fella hadn't been malicious about it. (And it hadn't hurt.) However, you had asked that Bucky not do something like that in public, and he had agreed, and you knew he would keep that promise.

Now, of course, you knew that this particular spanking wouldn't be light and playful. It was probably going to be the opposite: you and Bucky had a thorough discussion a few days after your first spanking, and you both had mutually agreed on potentially using implements in the future. But only in specific circumstances, such as multiple repeat offenses, extremely poor behavior, endangering yourself (or himself). And this wasn't the first time you had been rude to Bucky. The knowledge of that alone made the guilty stone in your body grow further.

“I... I think I need the help, Buck.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, and he nodded before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Okay, doll... I want you to know something first, alright? No matter what happens, I will _never_ cheat on you. Never.” Bucky's voice wasn't firm. It was very soft and sincere, and you could see in his eyes that he meant every word. “I promise that with everything I got. I love you too much, baby. That's why I'll do this for you: I love you.”

“I love you too,” you murmured.

About ten minutes later, you found yourself in position over Bucky's knee, with your skirt up and slip down for modesty, and Bucky was carefully rubbing your back. He had changed back into his normal clothing, and he had retrieved a small silver coal brush from his coat closet, which had surprised you initially.

“ _That's going to hurt, isn't it?”_ you'd found yourself saying, and Bucky had nodded.

“ _I'm not gonna lie, hon. This thing's a scorcher. I'm not going to use it the whole time, and we've talked before about being respectful to each other.”_

You couldn't deny that, and there hadn't been much else to say before Bucky had sat on his couch and gently urged you over his lap.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“I really am sorry about being mean to you. You didn't deserve it,” you said, even though the spanking hadn't even started yet.

“I know, doll,” and one of Bucky's hands started to stroke your hair. You weren't sure which: you were too focused on holding onto the sole pillow on the couch. “I know. And I've already forgiven you. This right now is about you forgiving yourself, or your guilt will eat you up inside.” You nodded a little at his words, and his hand moved away from your hair. “I love you. I love you enough to do anything you need, even if it means lighting a fire in your keister when you ask me to.”

As vaguely touching as that was, you were still pouting when you felt Bucky give your bottom a small pat, before his hand returned with a swat. You managed not to yelp, but you certainly flinched and held onto the pillow tighter as more spanks rained down.

You weren't entirely sure how long the spanking lasted, to be honest. You were more focused on steadying your breathing, and keeping your hands away from your rear by clutching onto the cushion, while the constant stream of stingy swats didn't waiver and quickly filled the room. Bucky remained almost unnaturally silent for the longest time, and the swats – to your surprise – weren't _too_ painful. They stung, incredibly so, more than the playful swats he'd given you previously. Bucky was also spanking you slower than he had back in August, or slower than all of the school paddlings you'd gotten. It was almost like he was waiting to make sure you felt the sting of each individual swat before bringing the next one down, rather than letting them all blend together. It didn't take long before your bottom felt sore, and once you started sniffling under the pain, Bucky lifted his knee slightly and aimed for your undercurves.

Once you collapsed into soft sobs, squeezing the cushion tightly and occasionally whimpering apologies, Bucky momentarily stopped and rubbed your back with one hand, before you felt something distinctly hard and cold lightly tapping your right cheek. The lower one.

“Sugar, I'm going to use the brush now,” he said, wrapping his arm a little more firmly around your waist. He waited for you to give a little nod, before the brush pulled away for a moment, then returned – and you let out a yell. Your fella hadn't exaggerated in the slightest: the brush scorched, especially in comparison to the swats Bucky had been previously giving you, and it didn't take very long before your sobs turned into wails of misery.

Later, Bucky explained that he'd given you only ten spanks with the brush, but it had certainly felt like more than that. When the spanking had ended, your bottom burned, and you were a mess of weeping and whimpers, but the guilt you had felt was gone. You managed to catch the clatter of the coal brush being dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, before Bucky carefully eased you back onto your feet – then seated you back on his lap for a cuddle. You latched onto him at once, crying into the crook of his neck and your arms wrapped around his chest, and his own arms found their way around you. He rocked his body back and forth gently, rubbing your back with his knuckles, and murmured soft, sweet things in your ear as you held on tightly. Some of his words, you couldn't exactly make out over the sound of your own crying, but others you heard clearly and tucked into your heart:

“It's alright, baby. I've got you. I've got you.”

“I'm so proud of you. So proud of you.” (This was accompanied by several kisses to the crown of your head.)

“I love you, doll. I love you so, so much. I'm not going anywhere, alright? I'm gonna be right here with you, always.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have probably mentioned this during chapter 2, but here's a belated history lesson! During World War I, there was over 320,000 United States casualties, which meant that there were legions of families who lost husbands/fathers at varying stages of pregnancy and child-rearing, like the Rogers family. Many children grew up knowing that their fathers had died during the war, and it wasn't something to be ashamed of (since they'd died for their country). A lot of mothers remarried (if possible) so they wouldn't have to raise their children alone. 
> 
> During the Great Depression, however, times were very different. While traditional divorce rates went down, the rates of abandonment increased (which many referred to as a “poor man's divorce”). A poll in 1940 revealed that 1.5 million married women had been abandoned by their husbands; to put it into perspective, there were over 122,700,000 people living in the U.S during the 1930's. It wasn't something people were open about, not like the current day. Marriage rates also went down, since men wanted to be able to provide for a family before proposing. 
> 
> And if anyone is curious, during World War II, there is over 1,070,000 United States casualties. (Thanks, Wikipedia!) Marriages also spiked dramatically, since people would get married to their sweethearts before getting drafted, so they would have someone to write and come home to. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments with questions about history, or about anything you're curious about with “Babes in Arms”!


	11. March 1941

Times were tense. Anyone who kept up with the newspapers – which was, to say, everyone – knew that the war in Europe was spinning more and more out of hand. The reels before the pictures explained that. The radio broadcasts explained that. In-between ads and obituaries, the newspapers explained that as well. You heard people at the supermarket gossip about it; you passed by the barber shop and heard the old men yammering about the possibility of a draft. The president continually said that the United States would not get involved in the war, unless absolutely necessary, but you had a sinking feeling that it wouldn't be much longer.

That didn't mean regular life came to a stand-still. Like everything else, each day continued onward.

**~ * ~**

Bucky had talked constantly about taking you and Steve to on a trip some day, and each time you had asked him, “Where would it be to?”, he refused to tell: he would make a 'shh' gesture with his finger, or point your attention to something else, or kiss your cheek and say, “Don't worry 'bout it, Doll. I've got it all planned out.”

So when he showed up to your apartment early on Saturday morning (and you were grateful to be completely dressed), with Steve in tow, and he said, “Come on, doll, we're going to Coney Island.”

The first thing to come into your mind was an island in the shape of a hot dog. When your expression gave your confusion away, Steve explained: “It's fun. Buck and I went once in high school.”

“It's like those harvest festivals you went to,” Bucky added. “Just big enough for all of New York.”

You had liked the sound of that, so you grabbed your purse, your wallet, and the money out of the change jar on your vanity (all $2.57 of it), before you locked the apartment door behind you and headed out.

**~ * ~**

“Come on, Steve! The sign said it's this way!” you chirped, pulling your skinny friend's arm as you weaved in and out of the large crowd, the sound of Bucky's laughter coming from behind you. You knew he'd be able to keep up, but you didn't want Steve getting lost (or stepped on), so you refused to let go of his hand, even if it looked like you were going steady with him instead of Bucky.

“Whatever it is, it's still gonna be there whether we run or not!” Steve cried.

“Well then, quit bein' such a slow-poke!” you teased.

When the three of you had arrived to Coney Island, your jaw had dropped in awe of the sight of the large, spinning rides; multiple stations of food and game booths; and the ocean being so, so close. You hadn't been this close to the ocean since, well, before the Depression: you hadn't even thought about putting on a bathing suit underneath your dress! However, everything was so jam packed together, you were certain the three of you could entertain yourselves without even going close to the water.

For the first two hours, you had been right! There was a booth that made postcards out of pictures in 10 minutes: the photographer had set up a beach-like motif as the picture background, which had been fine by you. (“Last time we were here, they had it set up like a _farm_ ,” Steve had whispered to you with a grimace.) It had been fifteen cents for three postcards – one for each of you – and you had paid it without a second glance (then agreed to keep them in your purse for safekeeping until all of you left). You had been pleasantly surprised by how nice the photo came out, and you knew once you got back to your apartment, your copy would hang on your bulletin board.

There had been several kiddie-only rides that you had passed by, even though you could tell – by the screams of delight, and the occasional cries of terror – that the children were enjoying themselves. Some of the adult rides you had recognized from the harvest festival: little flying carts that twisted in a low circle; “bumper” cars (even though the sign requested that patrons not purposefully bump into each other); carousels; the spinning pit that groups of people sat in, with nothing to hold onto, and prayed you weren't the first to fly off.

That last one you convinced Bucky to get on with you – it was only a penny – and Steve watched from outside the pit, laughing when Bucky went flying before you did, his hair askew and a grin on his face. “Doll, I can see why you liked that so much,” he said once all of you got back together again.

Others, you hadn't seen before, and you were eager to ride with your boys. The floor of whirling disks. A ship that spun high and upside down. The tunnel you walked through, but the tunnel spun the entire time. Sometimes, Bucky would refuse and ask to watch you and Steve go on – which was fine. You had an iron stomach, but after watching Steve throw up after getting on the Twister ride with you (after Bucky politely warned him not to), your skinny friend decided to hold off on rides until his stomach settled.

As a sort of vague punishment for using reverse psychology on Steve to get him on the Twister, you shepherded Bucky into the house of mirrors and giggled constantly when he bumped into walls and muttered swear words to himself. Once you two made it out, he grabbed you around the waist and pressed a firm kiss to your cheek.

“Bucky!” you squealed.

“What?” he teased. “I gotta make sure you're real this time, and not a mirror image.”

You all passed by a large building with a man standing outside, shouting into a megaphone and trying to herd people inside. A freak show, for a dime a person, the worker shouted. See the greatest freaks from around the world. People who were extremely tall, or short, or skinny, or fat, or this, or that, or —

After about ten seconds of his charade, the man seemed to notice you glaring at him – and poor skinny Steve standing beside you. He was about to say something, and you knew for a fact if he announced it to the world, you would clobber him – impending spanking from Bucky be damned. Thankfully, the man only turned his attention to the rest of the crowd, and Bucky carefully ushered both you and Steve away from everyone.

“They're all assholes, Stevie,” you said, noticing how hard Steve was struggling to maintain a neutral expression on his face. “All of 'em.” Then you had noticed something amazing. Fantastic and amazing, and you knew it would cheer Steve up. “Come on!”

So you had grabbed his arm and started running, which lead back to now.

“Where are you taking me?” Steve demanded, even though there was no malice behind his words.

“The Wonder Wheel!” You told him, pointing to the large Ferris wheel with two separate lines of carriages: one was stationary, and the other set swung back and forth obnoxiously during the entire ride. “Look how high it goes, Steve! We'll be able to see all of New York!” At his worried expression, you tacked on, “Oh, I didn't wanna ride the moving one, Steve: I was thinking about the stationary one! That way we could look at the view. Do you mind?”

Both of you knew that was a lie, but neither of you brought that up. Instead, Steve gave you a smile as Bucky finally caught up with you both.

“What'd you run off for, Doll? Trying to ditch me for Stevie here?”

“We're going on the Wonder Wheel,” you explained, and Bucky let out a low whistle.

“That sure goes up high, hon.”

“Buck's too scared of heights to go on,” Steve teased, before Bucky tucked him under his arm to give him a noogie.

**~ * ~**

“Who would get a plate of spaghetti at Coney Island?” you asked Bucky, noticing the sign that projected, SPAGHETTI 20 CENTS.

Bucky only shrugged as the three of you tried to make your way to a food booth. There were hot dog stands, ice cream vendors, spaghetti, corn on the cob, frozen custard, cold sandwiches, hot sandwiches, “tropical fruits from Hawaii” that were called pineapples, cotton candy – anything and everything. You wished you had two stomachs – maybe even three – just so you would be able to try all of the magnificent things you were seeing (and smelling).

You also still had a little under two dollars in your purse, and you intended on at least spending some of it. Especially since the man running the hot dog eating contest had refused your entry. (“Your stomach ain't strong enough for this, girlie,” he had snapped at you, despite having the thirty cent entrance fee.)

“I think I want a hot dog,” you said as you and Steve passed the stand. Bucky had already made his way over to a stand that sold sandwiches and bottled Coke-Colas. “You want one, Steve?”

Steve shook his head. “'m fine,” he said. “I'm not real hungry.”

“Steve, you need to eat,” you said calmly.

“'Cause I'm all skin and bones?”

“No, 'cause you're human – and humans eat every day.”

You wound up getting four hot dogs, each with mustard and chili and onions, for twenty cents, and Steve ate one of them. Bucky wasn't even remotely surprised by how much you ate, nor did he comment on it, except for a small cough and a joke about onion breath. Then he let you take a few sips of his Coke.

All in all, the day was very nice, and it wasn't until the sun began to fall when Steve suggested catching the subway back home. You still had over a dollar in your pocket, and that was alright. With Bucky's arm around your waist, and one of Steve's hands clutched tightly in one of your own, the three of you started to leave.

As you passed a booth of plush bunnies, however, Bucky nudged your shoulder. “You want one, doll?” And he broke out into deep laughter when the only response he received was a firm “NO,” from both you and Steve.

 


	12. February 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for anylov3lylittlethought, who requested the razor strap scene.

“ _Myyy_ , this is a might fine shop y'all got here.”

Weeks later, Miss Ruth would look back and curse the roof down in the shop where you worked. (You would do the exact same thing, only much quieter and when Bucky wasn't around to cluck his tongue and tease, “I didn't know my girl had just a sailor mouth, doll.”) You both would painfully recount how beautifully youthful and full of hope the young woman who entered the store was: her clothes did not hold the lackluster quality of the Depression, her skin smooth and without a single freckle or flaw, and her eyes full of innocence.

Even if she hadn't been wearing the coat lined with fur, or the small fur beret, or carrying a purse that was probably worth as much as a month's worth of your rent – her aura was enough to prove that the Depression had not effected this young woman in the slightest. She had been one of the very, _very_ few who had been shielded from it.

You could also tell, by how thick her accent and drawl was, that she was no New Yorker. Neither were you, but your accent (which had _never_ been _that_ thick) had died down over the years.

“How can I help you?” you asked with a smile. The young woman was probably around your age – give or take a few years – and Miss Ruth was on her lunch break for another ten minutes.

After shaking your hand and saying hello, she introduced herself: Claire Van Allen, and you recognized her name immediately. Her father owned several large plantations in Mississippi, each of them selling tobacco or food, so it was clear how she had maintained her wealth while everyone had not. Jobs or not, people still had to eat.

“If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing in New York?” you asked, and she grinned. For the daughter of an obscenely rich man, she was actually rather sweet: you had been expecting a brat.

“I'm gettin' married in 'bout a month, and I wanted to go and see the world before I settle down with my fiance,” she said, stretching out the word fiance into four syllables instead of three: not from bragging, but from the way she pronounced it. “And I've been lookin' for some final things for the weddin', and for my bridesmaids, and nobody's been able to help me so far.”

“I'm sorry to hear about that,” you said, which was the truth. “What exactly would you need help with?”

You were very grateful that it was a slow day when she politely began to explain her ideas. She already had her wedding dress; she showed you a picture, and you recognized it out of a 1924 wedding catalog - lots of lace and glamour, and some skin. All of the bridesmaids already had all of their dresses: all nine of them.

“ _Nine_?” you asked in complete shock. You couldn't imagine having any more than three or four, and that would involve a great deal of begging.

“I _knooow_ ,” Claire said with a pout. “It was _supposed_ to be fifteen, but some of his cousins and my cousins didn't want to be bridesmaids, and others can't even make it to the wedding, and it's just a mess.”

At that moment, Miss Ruth returned, and Claire brightened up considerably.

“Oh praise Lord, I was so worried that you were the only one who worked here, and I was just starting to feel awful about asking for help,” she said to you, and you immediately noticed Miss Ruth's look of skepticism.

“It's alright: Miss Ruth is the one who owns the shop. I just work here.”

“She knows her way around a machine and some thread,” Miss Ruth complimented, heading into the back.

Claire launched back into her dilemma, and you quickly found a pad of paper and started to take notes – so you could keep track of what she was saying, and so you could show it to Miss Ruth.

Each of the bridesmaids dresses needed some kind of an alteration: take down a hem, fix buttons, adjust lace, take it in, let it out (but only by a hair), could something fancy be added? Thankfully, most of the alterations were fairly straight-forward and simple: you would just need the dresses.

“I should be able to do this,” you said with a grin, “When do you need it by?”

“That's the thing,” she said, suddenly sobering up. “I leave on Sunday, so I need 'em by Saturday to pack 'em up and send 'em home to my bridesmaids.”

It was Tuesday. That meant nine bridesmaid dress alterations in less than four days, along with whatever other orders were due this week. You could tell by her body language and her tone, however, that she wasn't trying to be rude or act entitled. She probably just didn't know how much labor an order like this would entail, especially in such a short amount of time. “If you could give me just a second,” you said, gesturing to the back door.

“It's no trouble,” Claire said, her eyes wide and hopeful, “Take all the time you need.”

The moment you stepped into Miss Ruth's office with the pad of paper in your hands, your boss spoke, “Kid, I'm so sorry about throwing you under the rug, but I couldn't understand a goddamn word coming out of that girl's mouth. It was like she was trying to chew molasses.”

It took you all of forty-five seconds to explain the situation – and to show her the paper – and Miss Ruth let out a loud sigh.

“God Almighty, this is going to be an awful few days. Come with me, kid: you're playing interpreter.” And Miss Ruth gestured for you to follow her as she walked back into the shop. She gave Miss Van Allen a grim smile before she admitted, “We can complete your order, but it's not going to be cheap, since you need it so fast.”

“But you'll still do it?” Given how wide the smile on her face became, she had obviously been expecting for you and Miss Ruth to say no.

“Yes, but we will need the dresses immediately – preferably within the next hour. We can discuss prices now, or later -”

“Whatever it is, I'll pay it,” Claire said, “I promise.”

If it were anyone else, you'd be skeptical, but since her outfit alone probably cost the same price as everything in the shop, you weren't worried.

Miss Ruth nodded. “Good. When you get back, we'll start.”

“I'll be back in a half hour. Oh, thank you,” Claire said before she nearly ran out of the shop in a surprisingly lady-like fashion.

You immediately felt Miss Ruth grip your shoulder with excessive force, digging her nails into your skin, and she looked you straight in the eye.

“Kid,we are not going to mess this up. Most of this is real simple, just tedious, but we got a short turn around. If I handle any sort of other order that comes in, will you be able to handle this on you own?”

Your mind suddenly went blank. Yes, technically, you could, but working through nine – potentially ten – dresses in less than three days would be its own kind of hell, especially since they were bridesmaid dresses. “I, I should be able to -”

“Whatever profit we make off of this, I'm gonna give you a third,” Miss Ruth cut you off. “Maybe even half, if you do a good enough job. Pardon my bluntness, but we are not fucking this up.”

**~ * ~**

To her credit, Miss Van Allen had arrived thirty-five minutes later with all of the dresses (and several people who you assumed were servants carrying them). You quickly organized each dress onto a mannequin (and praised God that the shop actually had ten mannequins), before Miss Van Allen happily informed you of which dress went onto which bridesmaid – and what alterations needed to be made for each dress. Each time she mentioned adding lace, or a faux pearl stitching (since she wasn't a complete idiot and knew having real pearls on a bridesmaids dress was asking for trouble), you showed her what was in the shop, and she loved it. That, at least, would save some time in the long run, instead of having to make any additional trips to other material stores.

Unfortunately, while none of the dresses were larger than a size eight, the material was extremely delicate. You knew what that meant: every alteration would need to be hand-sewn. No machine sewing at all.

Shit.

“We'll have it done Saturday. It might be Saturday night, but it will be done,” Miss Ruth said.

“I'll give you the number to my hotel room at the Ritz,” Miss Van Allen said calmly. “That way ya'll can call once it's all done, and I'll come pick it right up.”

As soon as Miss Van Allen shut the door behind herself, you immediately went to work on the first dress. You knew for a fact that your lunch break would be nonexistent until this order would be done – and you might even need to take a dress or two home and work until the wee hours of the morning.

By the time the shop closed, you had completed three of the easier dresses: two hems had needed to be let out, and the third had needed to be taken in by a fraction of a hair. “Which one should I take home with me?” you asked Miss Ruth carefully, and she thought for a moment before grabbing one of the garment bags the dresses had been given to you in.

“This one: the lace is over there, and it needs to go around the waist.”

It would be an easy enough job – just very tedious to do by hand. Miss Ruth carefully packed the finished dresses into their garment bags, while you headed home with the lace and the fourth dress.

**~ * ~**

There was a soft knock at your door, almost tentative, and you politely said, “Please come back later,” your complete focus upon the dress in your hands.

“Aww, doll, please don't throw me out, I _miss_ you,” a familiar voice cooed through the door. You carefully set the dress onto your bed – you hadn't dared put it on your desk, with all of the typewriter stains on it – before opening the door.

There stood Bucky, grinning wide and dressed surprisingly nice, adoration clear on his features, before that quickly melted away into concern. “Are you alright?” he asked, inching into your apartment before closing the door. “You look dead on your feet.”

You certainly felt that way. The last few days had been an absolute blur. You alone had completed all of the dresses, somehow. You had only eaten a quick breakfast each morning before rushing to the shop, and you had stayed up well past midnight or one in the morning to complete any dress you brought home. The one currently on your bed needed the most complicated alteration, and you were almost halfway done, and it was already eight o'clock. You would probably be awake until the sun rose.

“I haven't been getting much sleep,” you admitted softly, and Bucky noticed the dress on your bed.

“Someone ask you to be a bridesmaid, doll?”

You shook your head. “It's an order for work. It's due tomorrow.”

“You normally don't procrastinate on your work like this,” Bucky said, his voice sympathetic as he sat down, taking over your desk chair while you sat on the bed, right next to the dress.

“I know,” you said, and that was true. Both you and Miss Ruth worked hard to make sure an order was finished as quickly as possible. But you carefully started to work again on the bridesmaid dress while filling Bucky in the whole week. You knew it was Friday – even though everything was starting to blend together – and once this whole order was completed, you were going to take a very, very long nap. Perhaps after eating something.

Bucky was quiet for several minutes after you finished your explanation, before he eventually murmured, “You've been starving yourself and losing sleep?” His tone wasn't judgmental: it sounded like he was trying to get all of the facts together.

You sighed. “I, I'm not trying to, Buck. I don't _want_ to give up sleep or food... but I also know I have to get this done.”

“I know, hon,” Bucky said, but his facial expression was disapproving. “But I still don't like knowing you're endangering your health. That's _three_ _days_ without a good amount of sleep or food.”

“Four,” you admitted quietly. “I don't think I'll even be able to sleep tonight to get this done. Its the last one, and I have to get it to her tomorrow.”

Bucky sighed, and he rubbed his face. “I'm guessing me coming over to surprise you with a date isn't the best idea.”

“Not unless you know how to help me fix this bodice?” He shook his head, and you added, “'M sorry, Buck. I know I promised I wouldn't do this: endangering my health.”

He nodded and stood. “Put the dress down for a second, doll. I want to give you a hug,” and you couldn't begrudge him of that. He cuddled you close for a moment, pressing a long kiss to your forehead, then a shorter one on your lips. “I'm not working tomorrow down at the docks, so whenever you're done making this delivery, I want you to come find me, alright?”

“I will, Buck,” you said, and he gave your cheek a peck before leaving you to your work.

**~ * ~**

You and Miss Ruth had agreed to meet up at the Ritz, with all of the dresses, at noon on Saturday. Miraculously, you had finished the final dress at four in the morning, before sleeping and only managing to wake up at 11:15. You had quickly dressed, put the gown into its garment bag, and raced to the Ritz just in the nick of time.

The past four days had been akin to one of Dante's personal circles of Hell to you. But, seeing Miss Van Allen break down into grateful tears at the sight of the nine dresses, instead of reacting rudely or some other nonsense that Miss Ruth had mentioned about brides in the past, was nice.

“How much is it for all this?” She asked, grabbing her purse.

“I ran my shop single-handed for a week, and she did all your dresses on her own,” Miss Ruth said, gesturing to you. “Rush order, especially for wedding – a hundred and thirty-five dollars.”

That was easily worth more than three months of your rent, but she paid it to Miss Ruth without even blinking – before handing you an additional thirty dollars. “I can't thank y'all both enough for this. I really appreciate it.”

Once you both left the Ritz, Miss Ruth handed you sixty dollars from the one hundred and thirty-five. “That's your cut. Don't you dare start tearing up on me: you can come in at eleven on Monday. I know you didn't have any time on Friday to get to the bank before it closed.”

That was true. Payday was every Friday, since you closed early and the banks were open an hour later, but you instead had rushed home to work on the last dress. All together, with what you had made – and the $14 you made each week normally, you would be depositing $104 into your account.

“Thank you, Miss Ruth,” you said, even though you _were_ tearing up, but she waved it off.

“Don't thank me. Go home, hide that stack until Monday, and take a nap, kid. You look like you need it.”

**~ * ~**

You didn't go home and take a nap like Miss Ruth asked. You went home and hid the money in your diary, then put the diary underneath your typewriter, before you made the twenty-minute walk to Bucky's apartment. It wasn't until you started up the stairs of the apartment building when you realized that you were probably going to get a spanking for endangering your health: it was something you both had discussed and agreed to, and even though you felt incredibly tired and worn out, you knew it was fair.

When she knocked on the door, it took all of four seconds before he answered and ushered you inside. Once you took off your shoes and placed them by the door, he pulled you into a hug, and you immediately melted in his embrace. Bucky has this aura of protectiveness that you had grown accustomed to, and you missed him when he wasn't around.

“How did everything go, doll?” he murmured, walking you over towards the couch before sitting down himself, with you beside him.

“I got everything finished,” you said. You kind of wanted to mention the money – not specifically to brag, but because you were proud to do a good enough job to earn that kind of money. But you realized, no matter what, it would sound like bragging, so you kept quiet. “I'm real tired, though.”

“No doubt,” Bucky said, “How late did you stay up last night, getting everything done?”

“... Four.”

“Four in the morning?” His tone was full of shock, and he gently took your face in both of his hands. “Doll, you cannot keep doing this to yourself.”

“I won't, Bucky,” you promised, “I won't endanger my health anymore.”

Bucky nodded and let go of your face, only to wrap his arms around you and to cuddle you a little closer. You happily accepted the side-embrace and snuggled against him, resting your face against his chest. Both of you stayed like that for some time, before Bucky eventually murmured, “Doll, would you like to take a nap before we talk, or after?”

You knew very well what that 'talk' would mean, and as much as you wanted to sleep, you knew that you wouldn't be able to with the knowledge of an impending 'talk' weighing over your head. “After,” you murmured, holding onto Bucky a little tighter. “I-I know I'm getting a spanking, Buck.”

Bucky rocked you a little as he said, “I don't like doing this, doll. I know you had a reason for doing it, but I wish it hadn't even gotten to that point. Did you ask any of your friends on your hall for help?”

You shook your head. “None of 'em could do what needed to be done, Buck. Only me.”

“I understand, but what about Dorothy? Surely you could have asked for some help getting food into your tummy so you weren't starving yourself.”

That was a fair point, and you admitted, “I hadn't thought about that.”

Bucky hmm'd, before he said, “If it makes you feel any better, hon, a few days of little sleep and little food won't hurt so much in the long run – but it hurts me to see you do it, and I _know_ it hurts you too.” You nodded, and he continued: “Did I ever tell you about the time I got into some hot water with my dad?”

“No. What happened?”

“My dad's normally very level-headed. He doesn't get bothered by too much anymore. For most of my childhood, for me and my siblings, our Ma was the one who spanked us if we earned it. There was one day when I was about ten or so: can't remember if Steve was there or not, but probably not. And I got into a fight, right in the middle of the hallway at school, between two kids who were much older than me. And bigger.”

“Oh, _Bucky_...”

He kissed your head and said, “I got a busted lip and a lot of bruises, but when I saw my dad, he was livid. He took me home by the ear and whipped me with his strap 'til I was bawling my eyes out. Not 'cause I lost the fight or caused a disruption, but because I endangered myself.”

“Are you gonna whip me with the strap?” you asked quietly. You had seen the razor strap in the back of Bucky's closet once or twice, and you both had discussed using it in the most extreme of circumstances – but you had never thought you would get there someday. (You also knew he wouldn't actually hit you with the strap anywhere but your rear, instead of using it as an actual whip, but you also knew it would be extremely painful regardless.)

Bucky was quiet for several moments before he eventually said, “Yes. Not because I want to, doll, but because I don't _ever_ want to spank you for endangering your health every again – and I think the strap would make a good deterrent for that.”

You sniffed and nodded, before Bucky carefully urged you over his knee and moved your skirt and slip out of the way.

“Doll,” Bucky said softly, and he waited for you to reply with a soft 'hmm' before continuing, “I'm going to lower these.” And he patted the side of your hip, and you knew he meant your panties would come down.

“But, but why, Bucky?”

“I'm not doing it to embarrass you, hon, but since I'm using the strap, I need to see what I'm doing so I won't hurt you.” While his words made logical sense, it was still very embarrassing; you nodded along and miraculously did not whimper when he lowered your panties towards the hollows of your legs. “You ready, doll?”

You nodded, and the spanking began.

It wasn't for several months afterwards that you told Bucky this, but you could barely remember the hand-spanking he had delivered to your bottom. You had felt so tired, and holding the pillow so close to your face had been such a relieving moment after how hectic your week had been. Of course, when he laughed and kissed you cheek, he told you, “Doll, it wasn't meant to be too harsh of a spanking: I knew the strap was coming out.”

And Bucky was right: with something as fierce as the strap, the skin had to be warmed up, to avoid any sort of bruising or excessive force. He had stopped when your bottom became a warm pink, and you were sniffling, before he asked you to lie on the couch, with the pillow tucked under your bottom (which presented it higher for the strap, to your embarrassment).

You hid your face in your arms as Bucky went into his bedroom to get the implement of doom, and you didn't know he returned until he stroked your hair and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “I love you so, so much, doll,” he murmured softly. “I don't want to hurt you, so please don't move your hands back. I know you'll want to, but I'm going to do this quickly so it won't last too long. Alright?”

At the time, you nodded, and in hindsight, you probably should have plead for some leniency: some time to breathe between each lick of the strap. Each one felt like a thin stripe of fire had been lit across your backside, and – true to his word – Bucky did not allow you any time to breathe. It was less than a minute for all six stripes of the strap to fall across your bottom, and you were in tears after the second. Once it was all over, he dropped the strap to the floor, eased your panties and your skirt back into place (even though you whimpered in pain), and let you latch onto him, crying against his shoulder.

You could not remember much beyond that, but Bucky told you what happened later: you cried your tears and immediately fell asleep under the pressure of the last few days, so he picked you up and helped you under the covers of his bed, allowing you to sleep in peace while he quietly made some of his mother's soup for when you woke up.

 


End file.
